Come Hel or High Water
by Thai M. Zoofquesque
Summary: The dead know everything. But, for Mallory Moore at least, they don't give a whit. And there's nothing a feared, disliked, and apparently half-immortal teenager can do to make them. Maybe. OC Norsefic. Complete.
1. Prologue

**Come Hel or High Water**

_The dead know everything._

_But they don't give a damn._

**Disclaimers**

_PJO belongs to Rick Riordan, the creator of this wonderful world. (This wonderful world being the PJO books.) Mallory, Lux, Warren, and everyone else belong to me – but you won't meet Lux or Warren yet. The English language belongs to whoever wrote it down first._

_The flames belong to whoever sets the fires._

**Dedicationy Thing**

_This story is dedicated in part to my Go the Distance friendlies (especially Storm – stop making me think about Norse demigods, dammit) and in part to my best friends Marissa and Kaye, who are pretty much the combination I based the character of Lux off of._

_Not to mention the badass Lux from camp._

**A Pre-Thing**

_For those of you who are put off by OC stories, this is the time to leave. All characters in this story are from my own head, although that makes me feel strangely like Zeus. For those of you who are put off by stories of demigods from other pantheons, this is the time to leave. Mallory and the other demigods are all Norse demigods, except for the few odd Egyptians and maybe an Indian or two. (Nope, all Norse. Har har har.) For those of you who are put off by my writing, then leave a flame and leave. I've got a couple fire extinguishers._

_For those of you who are here to enjoy my writing, go on. And please leave a review with some constructive criticism._

-The Author

* * *

**Before**

_If there was one thing I didn't have to do, this would be it._

"Dad, please. Please don't make me do this. Oh, _God,_ Dad, don't make me do this, I seriously don't want to do this, please, Dad, please?"

"No."

"Whyyyyy?!"

"Dolores, you have to go to school—"

From my perch on the window-seat on the landing of the stairs, I could watch unnoticed as the little brunette on the story below stomped her foot and screeched childishly at the man standing before her. "Daaaad!" she was whining, her blue eyes – though I couldn't see them, I knew all her tricks that she used when she wanted something – filled with dramatic (and usually fake) tears. "All the kids laugh at me! They call me a freak just 'cause their brothers and sisters used to go to school with Mallory and she acted like a freak and then I had to go there too and so now I'm a freak and I don't like it! Dad! Make Mallory stop being a freak!"

"Don't call your sister a freak, Dolores…"

"Why not? It's true!"

"Even if she were a freak, I couldn't stop her."

"Why not? She's your daughter, right?"

The reply was tired, and from my vantage point I could see him press his knuckles to his temples as he spoke. "Yes, Dolores, Mallory is my daughter."

"Then you should have some control over her, right?" Dolores said triumphantly, in the tone she always used when she had gotten her way and she knew it.

"It doesn't work that way."

"Why _not!?_"

"Listen, Dolores, your sister's going through a pretty tough time right now. You know Alyssa just had that move to Europe – "

"And a stupid move, too!" My sister's voice was pitched lower now, in her _"I-am-going-to-act-like-an-adult-now_" voice. "Couldn't Alyssa's parents just have taught math to poverty-stricken _Americans_ instead of, like, Germans or whatever?"

My father – tall man, dark hair, green eyes, doesn't care much about his appearance so I won't either – turned away from my little sister and began making for the kitchen, a basic way of saying "this conversation is over" without actually saying "this conversation is over," which would have just annoyed Dolores and made her talk in an even higher-pitched tone – not to mention faster. Of course, the ten-year-old airhead didn't catch on and followed him, jabbering constantly on not wanting to go to school the next day. Reluctantly, I uncurled my legs from their so-so-so-warm place under my body and swung them off of the seat, heading up the next flight of stairs to my little garret.

My sister's argument with my dad just made me blind to my movements, and frequently on my journey up the spiral staircase I would run directly into a wall. It wasn't fun.

My room was a little round place, about eight feet high – only two feet taller than I was, sadly enough, and I was still growing – and with warped, damp-spotted wallpaper covering the walls. My bed, which was a four-poster swathed with dark purple curtains and whatever else I decided to hang on it, sat next to the only window, and it was this to which I went. I sprang forward; it was barely ten steps from my door to the bed, and so it was with ease that I did a belly-flopping bounce through the curtains and onto the mattress.

But. No time to play. I shuffled onto my knees and scooted forward, throwing the curtains out of my way and shoving the old-fashioned window shutters open. The cold December breeze blew onto my face but, undaunted, I thrust my head and shoulders through the window and looked down.

My tower-garret-thing was far above the rest of our mansion-like property; the highest room in the house, my dad liked to tell me. I closed my eyes and tilted my face up to the overcast sky, breathing the cold wind deeply and evenly. A spatter of rain was due later, I recalled from the weather forecast earlier; but maybe I could get to Lux's house before the rain really started coming in –

A splatter of wet struck my face, and I opened my eyes. The clouds had become darker and gathered about the sun. I scowled.

If it wasn't my sister, it was the rain.

Ruining my fun.

Of course, I reflected, as I drew back into my room and regretfully closed the shutters, the rain didn't always ruin my fun. I'd spent many a night reading by candlelight – the old tower-garret-thing didn't have electricity, much to my great chagrin – while the typical Seattle rain pounded on my well-slated roof. Dolores never wanted to come up to my room while the rain was going on; she never wanted to come up to my room, period, which was fine with me. But especially not when it was raining. The slates did some sort of weird reverberation thing that sounded somewhat like a large, violent drummer.

I, of course, liked it.

I've always been freakish that way.

Suddenly a flash of white caught my eye; as I jerked around, the flash became a pale face, framed with dark hair, glaring at me through venomous purple-red eyes lined with black bags. I yelped, falling backwards off of my bed and smacking my head against the wall. Tears came to my eyes, but I wiped them away. The momentary terror that had gripped me melted away, and my abruptly-racing heart began to slow.

Slowly, I crawled back up onto my bed, and the face confronted me again. This time, though, it didn't seem quite so threatening; the evil visage had become that of a girl, roughly sixteen, with almost milk-white skin and black, bone-straight hair that fell to about her elbows. Her violet eyes, wine-colored at first, then changing to a dark cherry as she shifted her weight, stared sadly back at me, framed by bags below and dark eyebrows above. I tilted my head. She tilted her head.

I exhaled slowly and crawled off the bed, moving unsteadily towards the mirror. "God, Mallory," I whispered, the sound somehow filling me with relief. "You really need to stop being afraid of your own reflection."

I reached forward and straightened the mirror unnecessarily – it was already straight as a board – and stepped back, critically examining a snarl in my hair. "Stupid… hair," I muttered, somehow glad nobody was there to hear my immature ramblings. "Why can't it just stay straight? Stupid hair. Stupid stupidity. Stupid… me for saying the word stupid so much."

Finally realizing I was talking to myself, I sighed and turned back to the mirror.

"You, my friend," I said firmly, jabbing my finger at my own reflection, "are not a ghost thing. You are me. You are Mallory Kate Moore. You are sixteen years old. You do not have a boyfriend and you are sadly lacking of friends except for Lux and until recently Alyssa, but Alyssa moved to France so her parents could teach English there, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…"

I trailed off and stuck my tongue out. My reflection mirrored the motion, her eyes shifting back into a violet hue.

"Stop freaking changing eye colors," I huffed, exasperated, and without another word I turned around and picked up a matchbox. The sound of the rain increased as, with some trepidation, I struck a match and put it to the first candle wick.

The warm glow from the candle calmed me down, and almost placidly I took the first candle around, lighting up all the others. By the time all the candles were lit, the rain was practically roaring outside and on the roof, and I knew I wouldn't be disturbed.

I took my heavy book of Narnian Chronicles out from under my bed, and clambered up onto my bed. The false-fur blankets surrounding me were warm, shutting out the chill of December that the room always let in. The candles lit the room with a soft, buttery light that made me think of winter fires and summer bonfires at the beach and toast in the morning when it was too cold for cereal…

I touched my finger to the Calormenes on the front cover of the Chronicles, and then with a quick flip of my wrist, I opened my book and began to read.


	2. Of Lux, Dragons, and Boys from Norway

**Chapter One**

**Of Lux, Dragons, and New Boys from Norway**

* * *

"Mallory… Maaalllloryyyyy… Maaaaaaallllllllllllllooorrryyyyyyyyy..."

I rolled over, burying my face into the warm fur underneath my nose. It was so warm in my room… and the rain was so soothing… and something squishy was putting pressure on my legs.

"Mallory Kate Moore!"

I shot up out of my comfortable sleep, almost smacking my head on the skull of the bed's other occupant. The person sitting on my knees let out a surprised yelp and toppled backwards out through the curtains. I sat for a moment, chest heaving with surprise and one hand on my Narnian chronicles, ready for battle.

The intruder was silent.

Then, "Lory! You _suck!_"

Lux Proler's head poked back through the curtains, scowling horridly. Her scowl wasn't very effective; she looked like a gingerbread man come to life, and with horrible constipation.

Lux was a short, chubby girl; together we looked like a pale twig (me) next to a fried dumpling (her). Her skin was a spicy, gingery-brown color that somehow managed to make me feel warm even when we were on opposite ends of a very cold room; whenever she smiled – as she did often – her cheeks bulged up over her grey-green eyes and her teeth literally glittered. Her hair, curly and black, with auburn-brown henna streaks from her last 'exotic' makeover, was tied back into a ponytail on that particular day, although usually she wore it down or in one of her 'special' hairstyles; these hairstyles usually involved me putting pins everywhere and anywhere with the end result looking like a bird's nest. Lux wore it anyway.

"Didn't you know I'm a vampire, Lux?" I returned, stretching and blinking sleepily at her. "When the hell did you get here? And… why the hell _are_ you here? Are you here to stalk me? 's not nice, Lux."

Her cheeks bulged up. Teeth glittered. "You overslept, m'dear Lory."

…_Overslept?_

_Fu-_

I threw off my covers, barely noticing that I was still sleeping in the clothes I had worn the night before. "_Why didn't anyone wake me up?!_" I shrieked, with equal measures of panic and anger. Lux raised one paprika-colored finger. "Now, now, Lory," she began, but I cut her off.

"No. Lux. If I'm late _again,_ Mrs. Cole will _kill_ – "

By this time I was across the room and digging frantically through my dresser drawers. Within moments I'd discarded lacy red things that I could vaguely identify as last year's costume for the school play – _Romeo and Juliet,_ urgh; I could never stomach romance – and a couple of ripped skirts, finally grabbing something that looked somewhat like jeans and a t-shirt and skittering off to the bathroom.

Once inside the claustrophobic space, I quickly changed into the garments; they turned out to be exactly what I thought they were. Which was a pair of severely torn jeans and an old grey doodle tee with a bunch of scribbles all over it.

Oh, the joys of not having an alarm clock.

I raced back up to my room, where Lux was waiting patiently, gnawing on something that appeared to be a Sharpie marker. I ignored this – she chewed on things frequently, everything from abacuses to… things beginning with z – and chose instead to grab my backpack from behind the bed and head for the door.

And then I saw the clock.

I skidded to a halt, staring at the Roman numerals on its face, then I turned robotically and glared at Lux.

"So," I said chillingly. "I overslept, did I?"

Lux was heedless of my irate tone. "Yep."

"Then why," I snarled, dropping my backpack once more and stomping over to where I could tower over her, "is it six. Fucking. Fifteen. In the morning?"

"Because you were supposed to wake up at five-thirty," Lux replied, oblivious as always.

"Why?"

"So you could go to IHop with me?" she retorted, in a _duh_ kind of tone. I ground my teeth.

Not just because I was angry, but because she was _right_.

I hate it when she does that.

"Okay," I sighed, finally. "Let me find my sneakers and write a note for my dad. But no more sitting-on-my-knees when you want me to get up, okay?"

Her grey-green eyes – more grey than green now, so I knew she wasn't lying – stared earnestly at me. "I'll try," she said truthfully. "But you know I forget a lot of stuff. It's quite sad, really. I'll be walking along, just kind of gliding through the day… then _boom!_ I forget something and–"

By the time her little monologue had finished, my shoes were on my feet and I was hopping to go. Whereas twenty minutes earlier I had been quite happy to sleep, now I was eager to go to IHop. So I cut in with a very loud "Lux. Shut up. Just... shut up, Lux. I wanna go to IHop. _Take me to IHop._"

Lux hopped up readily, still chattering about her memory problems, and I followed her down the stairs, across the foyer, and down into our massive front hall. I snagged a yellow sticky note from the table next to the stairs and scribbled a quick note to my dad. I had to run and slap it onto the fridge while Lux waited impatiently, as she did so often, and then we stumbled out of the door and into the Seattle morning.

It wasn't raining, per say; the deluge that had been hammering on my room the night before had slowed to a light drizzle. I shivered, regretting my decision to leave the house without getting a jacket. Of course, the jabberwocky-thing-that-was-my-friend at my side had to be wearing a long-sleeved shirt, a turtleneck on top of that, and then a hoodie.

_I hate irony._

* * *

So there I was; chilly, aggravated, and hungry, trudging along through the puddle-ridden streets with a dumpling at my side. The dumpling in question was talking animatedly, with much flailing of the hands, until finally she gave up and whapped me soundly on the side of the head with her palm. I let out a surprised yelp and leaped sideways away from her, clutching my skull.

"_You. Talk. Now._"

I blinked at her. Lux was glaring at me, arms crossed childishly as she frowned. I furrowed my brow at her in return, confused. "… what?"

"I'm tired of being the one talking," she returned, uncrossing her arms and putting them on her hips in a diminutive imitation of Dolores when she was irritated. "You. Must. Talk."

Lux appeared to deliberate for a moment before adding, "Or. Else."

I arched an eyebrow at her for a moment, then sighed in resignation. If it were up to Lux, I would be her mind-control zombie.

So I offered her my arm. She linked her elbow through mine and we set off once more down the street, this time with me doing most of the talking. We talked about many normal-for-us things; annoying little sisters, the way the trees looked really weird without leaves, the rain, walruses and their subsequent buckets, platypuses, platypus beaks, ducks, duck beaks, the rain, monkeys, and mythology. Of course it all went back to the rain in the end, usually when the sky would surprise us with a random splatter.

The conversation darkened when Lux brought up dreams.

"Tell me about the dream you had last night," she announced out of the blue. I halted. We were walking down the next-to-last street by IHop (my house was pretty far from it), and the sun was beginning to come up. The sky was tinted with a grey-blue hint, and I knew soon it would rise and the clouds would be visible. As usual.

"Mallory?"

Lux's inquiring voice snapped me out of my daze, and I shook my head to clear it. "Hmm?"

"Dream you had last night?"

"Oh… um…" I racked my brain. As far as I could remember I hadn't dreamed at all the night before; I'd fallen asleep to the sound of the rain and the warmth of my bed, not to mention the soothing familiar stories of heroic lions and children come across the wardrobe… "I don't think I had any dreams last night. Sorry."

"Night before last, then. Last week. Last month. Whatever your latest dream was."

I remembered my last dream clearly; a sky reddened with smog, a battlefield littered with bodies… thunder clashing, giant shapes battling in the sky… and a face, half-death's head, half-beautiful…

"Mallory. Oh, God, Lory. Not again. Do I have to hit you with a book bag?"

Lux's threat woke me up, and I bounced away from her like I was on springs. "No," I squeaked. For all that cheery dumplingesque-ness, Lux can smack really hard with bags and books. God forbid with a bag with books in it.

Her hard _"I will hurt you if I have to_" look melted away, and she grinned widely. "Kay. Good. So what did you dream about then?"

I mumbled something about falling off a cliff and never hitting the bottom, and Lux winced. "Eurgh. I've had those dreams. Oh my God, they make me feel so scared when I wake up. And sometimes I hit the bottom and oh _God,_ that sucks so much."

"Your face sucks so much," I retorted lamely, my mind on other things – like those devilishly good pancakes, why did IHop have to be so far? – and Lux rolled her eyes.

"Your _mother_ sucks so much," she shot back, obviously as out of it as I was. I took a moment to process that.

And then I got pissed.

"You're such a _bitch,_ Lux!" I shrieked, angry tears coming to my eyes without me being able to stop them. "You _know_ I hate it when you do that, you _know_ it! And you're so fucking _insensitive,_ you tactless _platypus!_"

I spun on my heel, too angry to listen to her pointless _"crap, I'm sorry"_s, and hurried down the street. I was practically blinded with fury and anguish; sadly, this was not the first time that Lux had made such an idiotic mistake. Nor was it the first time I had reacted so violently.

I heard a rumble of thunder overhead. Lightning flashed; the sky, which had been gradually lightening as the sun came up, darkened abruptly. A silver car – a Volvo, maybe, I suspected through my haze of rage – flashed by me, belching a foul cloud of gas. Then there was a darker scent; a smoky, charred scent like a barbecue.

But this stench was horrible… it spoke of endless fires and destruction, of dying forests and burning homes…

The smell what was alerted me that something was wrong. Instinctively I whipped around –

At first all I could see was scales.

Huge, orange-and-red scales, shaped like oak leaves, overlapping and glittering with the faint light in a way that almost hypnotized me. Then the stink of fire and smoke came over me again. I looked up.

Towering over me, almost twice my height, was the monstrous head of a beast. Its snout was short and rodent-like, and large tufts of grey-red fur were tucked like a frill behind its tall ears, which were remarkably like that of a horse. From its forehead rose a thick bone, as in the legends of unicorns. Its eyes were tilted and yellow, and the pupils were straight slits, like those of a lizard's or a cat's.

The vaguely squirrelly head was supported by a long, scaly, giraffe-like neck, patterned with the orange and red scales. The creature had three legs; one on the center front of the body, and two hind legs. The hind feet had a single claw larger than the others, like the pictures of velociraptors that I had so often looked over. The head bent down, serpentine neck bending gracefully, until I was practically nose-to-nose with the thing.

And it snuffed at me.

The smoky stench flooded my nostrils, and I stumbled back, wheezing. The dragon – there was no other word for it – let out another satisfied snuff and backed up a little, crouching down into a stance like those of a hunting lion.

It was then that I realized.

This thing was a predator.

And I was its prey.

In a flash I flung my backpack off of my back, running for my life down the street as fast as I could. Behind me the beast let out an outraged roar, which tilted off into a loud chattering noise that, despite what you might thing, was just as terrifying as the roar.

Then I heard a cracking and a _galumphing_ noise; _duhcrack, duhcrack-duhcrack, duhcrack, duhcrack-duhcrack, duhcrack, duhcrack-duhcrack._

I realized that the sound I heard was the dragon-beast, pursuing me. As it ran, its feet crumpled the pavement beneath it, probably leaving some pretty incriminating footprints.

If, I reasoned, this was all real and not just in my head.

An alley caught my eye and I ducked down it, wishing my sneakers didn't make such a loud slapping noise on the puddle-ridden pavement. I splashed through a couple puddles, then pressed my back against the wall, trying to keep myself from collapsing into a little heap.

The _duhcrack, duhcrack-duhcrack_ noise came closer now; it slowed down into a bit more gentle _duhnk, duhnk, duhnk. _I heard a sniffing noise at the entrance to the alley; the dragon-beast was searching, hunting for my scent. I tried to stop breathing.

The snuffling sound grew closer; I heard the slithering of scales slipping against brick. My heart was fluttering frantically in my chest; my shirt was literally shaking from its pounding. I couldn't breathe. Terror had frozen my throat. I couldn't move. I was essentially paralyzed.

Now, in the dim light from above, I caught sight of a tuft of fur and scales barely twenty feet from me. The beast was getting closer.

Fifteen feet when I next saw the head; this time it was the eyes I saw, flicking hungrily through the darkness like a cat's. Watching. Waiting for its prey.

Waiting for me.

The head snaked forward until it was six feet away. I knew now; it had caught my scent much earlier, and it was just waiting for me to make one false move before it struck.

I stifled the scream that was threatening to burst out of my throat and waited for the end.

* * *

It wasn't exactly as I expected.

First there was the gentle nudge from the dragon's snout that I was expecting, having grown tired of my motionlessness. Then, something I didn't plan for.

A rescuer.

A bright, fiery light suddenly flared up from the entrance of the alley, showing me exactly how long the beast was. It wasn't very long; I had run maybe forty feet from the end of the tunnel, and the tail of the dragon reached to about ten feet inside. Of course, the neck was curved up and then down to me, so maybe I wasn't the best judge of length, including the neck.

The light also showed me something I hadn't thought of at all.

A boy stood in the entrance of the alley.

He was maybe my age, give or take a year; his left hand was set confidently on a sword at his hip. His skin was painted a pale reddish-orange in the flickering light from a torch in his upraised right hand. His hair was deep brown, cropped short and streaked here and there with slightly darker patches of brown. He was even taller than I was, if that's possible; he stood around six two, his shadow behind him making him seem even taller than he really was.

And his eyes shone violet-red.

I shrank down into a crumpled heap, wishing that I had just decided to not go to IHop. Just kicked Lux out of my house and gone back to bed. Or better yet, not gone to school at all. It was the last day before hols, couldn't I just have skipped for one day? Maybe? Sort of? Possibly?

Would the scary dragon-beast have pursued me if I had skipped?

The rescuer's lips moved as he spoke. His voice carried down the alley, bouncing off what was definitely a dead end – I guessed it was good I hadn't gone any farther. "Ofnir, son of Nidhogg," he was saying, "I request that you release this girl. I request it twice. I request it thrice."

… _Um. What?_

The dragon-beast lifted its head to its grandiose height of twelve feet high, swiveling around to look at the boy. Its tail flicked angrily, and it growled. Smoke trickled from its jaws as it did so.

I gulped.

"Ofnir, son of Nidhogg," he repeated. "I request that you release this girl, on pain of death. I request it twice."

Without even requesting it, he drew his blade. It glinted redly in the light, but I thought that was more than just the flames; the sword itself was a scarlet red, darkening to maroon near the hilt. Runes I couldn't identify – something like a cartoon hand, an upward-pointing arrow, and an inverted, tilted Z – glimmered on its blade in a dark black that caught the light. Without skipping a beat, the boy hefted the sword, pointing it directly at the belly of the beast.

Ofnir – I supposed that was its name – growled once more. But this time the noise was quieter, a hint of uncertainty coloring the sound. I began to breathe again. Perhaps this mysterious stranger would save me; maybe I'd live, maybe I wouldn't have to disappear forever – or would the monster have left my bloodied body there, mauled so horribly that not even dental records could see who I was…?

_Morbid thoughts, Mallory. Morbid thoughts._

"Ofnir, son of Nidhogg," the boy said finally, after moments of silence broken only by my panicked hyperventilation. "Prepare to die."

Ofnir didn't seem to like that.

He wheeled around, tail smashing and scraping against the brick wall, and roared. The boy wasn't fazed. He didn't bat an eyelash.

Instead, he charged.

Yelling some sort of battle cry, he swept forward, hurling the torch high above the dragon's head. Ofnir's neck craned up, trying to follow it as it carved a burning trail in the clouded sky above use; then it plummeted down, down, and landed on his back.

For a dragon, he was surprisingly flammable.

The flames caught on the spikes that wove down the dragon's spine; Ofnir shrieked in pain and rage and reared up, foreleg clawing at the air. With an eerie _chu-chwiinnk_ noise, razor-sharp claws slid from the toes of his foreleg. He balanced quickly; as soon as he had found his footing, he charged on only two feet towards the boy. Too late.

The brunette made a leap; his sword hilt was gripped in two hands now as he sprung, the black runes clearly visible against the red. He traveled up, up, and as he began to lose altitude, pulled his hands back and flung the sword as hard as he could towards the belly of the dragon Ofnir.

Blood spurted.

I turned away, hiding my face in the wall, covering my ears as Ofnir let out a shriek of pain. I heard the walls cracking, trash cans banging around as the dragon went into his death throes; watched the shadows of the writhing Ofnir against the fire-lit wall. And then it was over.

* * *

I stood up, shaking with fear and shock. Had that _really_ just happened? Had I just been attacked by… by a _dragon_?

And _saved_?

I turned back to the carnage, keeping my eyes carefully averted from the dragon's corpse. It was damn difficult, though; the boy who was my savior was busying himself by ripping his sword out of Ofnir's motionless stomach. I concentrated on his back, fighting the urge to vomit. Or faint.

He turned around, noticed me staring at him, and must have thought I was about to faint as well. In quick, effortless steps, he was by my side. He put a hand on my shoulder and made me sit down again, saying quickly, "Put your head between your knees. It'll help, it'll help a lot."

I did as he suggested, and a few minutes later I felt a lot better. My stomach was still doing flip-flops, and terror was just beginning to let go of my voice. I rasped, "What was that?"

His lilac-red eyes darkened, and he flicked a quick glance over to the smoldering corpse. It was beginning to disintegrate into ash; as I watched, the dragon's carcass suddenly deflated, expelling a dark cloud of ash that filled my lungs and made me cough. When it cleared, there was only cracked pavement and bricks to suggest that anything other than I or the boy had been here.

"That," he said slowly, "was Ofnir. A son of Nidhogg, the tree-gnawer. He and his siblings have been tracking you. He is one of the…" here he twisted his lips, and his eyes flickered momentarily with amusement "…more exotic of Nidhogg's brood. Born of the union of Ratatoskr and Nidhogg. He does, however, have a brain the size of a peanut, which would only prove the phrase 'brawn but not brains.'"

Okay, this kid was officially epic.

Except for his news.

I struggled to my feet. "_Tracking_ me?" I demanded. "_What?_ And… who's Nidhogg? And Ratatoskr? And _who are you_?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "My name isn't necessary. You won't need it. What you will need to know is that this world is a lot bigger than you think, Mallory; and that your place in it is just becoming obvious. You may call me whatever you wish. My father is Týr. I like to be called War."

_Týr…_ I mused. That name seemed vaguely familiar. Like I'd read it in a book years and years before, but never really absorbed it…

He tossed something at me, and I caught it almost without thinking.

It was a book, very much larger and heavier than my Narnian Chronicles. The runes engraved onto the War-boy's sword were embossed onto this scarlet cover as well. When I flipped it open, there were several hundred pages of typed text, woodcuts, various sections and names that seemed only vaguely familiar. About half of the book was lined, blank paper, and a quarter of that was written on with an elegant, spiky hand.

I glanced up at the boy and raised an eyebrow. "A journal?"

War's eyes narrowed. "Read it," he barked harshly, and tossed something else at me. I snagged it with one of my hands; it was my backpack, left behind who knew how long ago to flee from the now-dead Ofnir.

"You'll be needing it," he said coldly, and as I shouldered it, he began to walk away.

"Wait!" I called after him, and he turned.

"Will I be seeing you again?"

For a moment his face softened, and he almost – _almost –_ smiled. "Pray to Odin that you don't," he said finally, and turned away once more. I opened my mouth to call again, but he was gone.

_This day is turning out to be really, really weird._

* * *

Once I'd found my way out into direct sunlight (or as direct as it could be, considering the cloud cover), I realized just how late I was.

Running from my mythical pursuer had managed to eat up almost an hour of my time; it was seven-thirty by now and I was running late. My stomach snarled at me, reminding me that I'd missed breakfast in hopes of deliciously good IHop, but there was no time for that now. I took off at a sprint, running down the street with the red book clutched to my stomach and my pack on my back. I cut across a red light, almost getting hit by a car on the way; but hey. When you've been almost been eaten and killed by a monster out of your nightmares, you tend not to care about being run over.

Or the road rage that occurs when you run out in front of a car.

I made it to school just as first period ended, slung my backpack into my locker, and followed the crowd that was my homeroom towards the assembly hall, as per usual re pre-hols. I kept my head bowed and my eyes down, trying to present as un-threatening an image as possible.

It still didn't work. My fellow students parted before me like minnows before a shark, and I managed to make it to assembly hall first. Again.

We filed into the room, which was more like a modified gym; barely large enough to accommodate the entire sophomore class, much less the entire school. A few of us had to sit on the floor, Lux included. I saw her shoot me a dark look for abandoning her as she passed, but I gave her a shrug in return.

I wondered curiously how the hell she had missed a giant dragon-beast chasing me halfway through town, but then the principal tapped her microphone and I turned.

"Hi, _chchskkgh_udents," she started, then frowned. I heard snickers erupt from around me; the microphone was malfunctioning once more. There was a loud, screeching noise of feedback as she adjusted the microphone on its stand; then she cleared her throat and began again.

"Hello, students. As you're well aware, the winter holidays will begin next Monday. Now, before I continue…"

She began droning about exam grades and extra credit and extracurricular activities – I perked up when I heard about a photography club and a poetry club, but then the school-induced stupor set back in – and various other boring school items that I didn't really listen to. I tuned in for the end of the assembly, just like always, since it was really the only interesting part.

"But, in the tradition of our school, I'd like to welcome some new students to our class before we leave for our various vacation spots," the principal announced, and stepped back from the microphone.

About sixteen or seventeen teenagers filed in; the first one, a petite blonde girl with wide blue eyes that blinked behind her horn-rimmed glasses, stepped up to the mike and introduced herself as Melissa Callahan. There was a smattering of applause, then another student, this one a hulking redhead with a nose that looked like it had been broken several times, stormed up to the microphone and moodily uttered his name; it was Richard Twining.

And so it continued, with the rest of the teenagers introducing themselves one by one, until when they finally got to the end I was nearly dying of boredom.

"Hey," a friendly, familiar voice said into the microphone. "My name's Warren Tyrsson, and I'm glad to be here in America. I'm originally from Norway, where I grew up with my parents; it's lovely to be in some nice weather for once."

Thunder boomed outside. I jerked up. At the stand was a boy with brunette hair shot through with dark brown; pale skin; and red-purple eyes just like mine.

My rescuer.

* * *

**Brief A/N:**

_of ofnir_

Ofnir is the non-canon son of two mythological creatures, Nidhogg (the dragon that gnaws on the roots of the World Tree) and Ratatoskr (the red squirrel that spreads gossip and sends messages from Nidhogg, at the bottom of the world tree, to Veorfolnir, the eagle at the top of the world tree. Ofnir and his siblings are not part of Norse mythology, only their parents are.

Thank you for your time, and please review.

-Thai


	3. Of Warren, Presents, and a Revelation

**Chapter Two**

**Of Warren, Presents, and a Revelation**

* * *

As I stared at him up on the assembly stage, mulling over his name – _Warren Tyrsson, Warren Tyrsson –_ in my head, his gaze was abruptly drawn to me. His eyes widened, turning red as they caught the light, and before I could motion to him to shut up, he blurted out, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Straight into the microphone.

A ripple of unfriendly laughter bubbled out into the crowd, and many people around me turned and craned their necks to see who he was talking about. Numbly, I mimicked them, not wishing to draw more attention to myself than necessary. Melissa Callahan, on the stage behind him, covered her mouth and giggled. Phoebe and Melanie Skelton – twins; scrawny, tall, and raven-haired; Phoebe had OCD, but Melanie was just weird, although people mistook that for MPD occasionally – snickered in unison on the bleacher seat in front of me and said something simultaneously that was lost in the chaos – and the principal scowled.

"That will be enough, Mr. Tyrsson," she said frostily, and stalked forward to pry the microphone out of his unmoving hand. Warren stared at me for a moment more, then at a barked "Mr. Tyrsson!" he stumbled backwards into his seat and stared at his hands.

"Well," the principal said after a moment, "that was en_ckhrchhh_ning. Plea_krrrch_ rem_chrk_er to—" She frowned at the microphone, then waved dismissively at us all and shouted, "Students! Please return to your homerooms! And have a great New Year!"

I stood up dazedly, vaulting off the bleachers and sharking through the crowd to the gym doors. As usual, people parted in front of me like the Red Sea, and I made it up the staircase and back to my homeroom with little trouble, collapsing in my desk with an aggravated sigh. Lux slid into the seat to my right, Phoebe in front, and Melanie in back. The left desk was squashed against the wall, and nobody had taken it.

_Until right about…_

Warren appeared in the doorway, an absent smile fixed on his face as his eyes scoped out the desks. He approached my row and began to move down it, gaze firmly fixed on the seat to my left.

…_now._

The brunette slipped into the leftward desk with a small huff of satisfaction, folded his fingers on the top of the desk, and eyed the whiteboard avidly. As I stared at him, though, his gaze suddenly flicked to the right at me and I jumped.

When I looked back, though, he was watching the board as fixedly as ever. I blinked and put a fist to my heart, wondering if maybe I was imagining things.

Like a giant dragon chasing me this morning, for example.

Before I had time to think about this more, a pair of pale hands with long, pointy green nails slammed down on my desk in front of me. They contained a small box wrapped in green wrapping paper. I looked up at the owner of the hands.

"Um. Ummm… here," Phoebe Skelton was saying nervously, her deep brown eyes blinking manically at me from above her thick-rimmed black sunglasses. "I got it for—for Christmas, yeah. I thought you might like it—cos I offered to bring presents for everyone—and here's yours. Yeah."

"Feeeeeeebbbs," Melanie whined from behind me – incomprehensibly, in an English accent – leaning out across the aisle and blinking at her twin through identical sunglasses. "You were going to let me bring the presents!"

"No, Lara," Phoebe replied – fleetingly, I thought, _Lara? What?_ – and shook her head. "I was going to let Melanie bring the presents. But Melanie had to go away and she told me to bring the presents, remember?"

Melanie-Lara frowned, then a look of dawning comprehension made its appearance on her face. "Oh yeah…"

Warren watched the exchange with wide, confused eyes, then glanced at me.

I could see he was afraid; his stare was nervous and his hands twitched every so often. After a few moments he wiped the anxiety away and leaned across the aisle with false confidence. I regarded him coolly.

"Warren Tyrsson," he said affably, extending his hand – he had a callus on his palm, I noted; from holding a sword frequently? – to me to shake. "I'm new here, and you looked like someone I know." His eyes were warm now, almost unbearably friendly, and I found myself melting under his gaze.

Nobody had willingly introduced themselves to me since Lux; she seemed to be immune to the air of menace I produced, as bouncy and cheerful and dumpling-ish around me as around anyone else. To other people, though, I was terrifying for reasons I knew not. Even now Phoebe was scuttling away with her trash bag full of gifts, dispensing them first at the end of the class farthest from me.

So I smiled at him and took his hand, shaking it firmly. "I'm Mallory," I replied. "Mallory Moore. It's great to meet you; you look like someone I met just a little while ago. Except of course you're not nearly as good-looking."

His eyes flashed and his smile dimmed for a moment, then he laughed. It was a bit forced, but he continued, "This mysterious acquaintance of yours must be quite the charmer. Do you come here often?"

"… this is sort of my school."

"Oh. Well. Right." War – no, this couldn't be the guy who'd rescued me – Warren waved off the stupidity with a dismissive flourish of his hand, and propped his feet up on the desk. His boots were covered in ash, I noticed, and the doubt that this Warren was really just Warren returned.

"So, tell me, Warren," I said casually, toying with the zipper on my jacket, "what do you like to be called? Just Warren, or Ren, or… War?"

Warren blinked at that, and his feet clunked down from the desk and onto the floor. His gaze was controlled as he stared at me. I smiled blandly back.

"Warren," he finally said evenly. "Just Warren is fine. And you?"

"I prefer Lory," I admitted. "People used to call me _Mal…_ but Mal means 'bad' in Spanish, right? And despite what they might think, I am not bad, evil, or even malignant."

War laughed easily, the tension from my question dissolved. "Mal does sound distinctly not-good," he returned, and his feet went up onto the desk again. "As does War. So just Warren's good for me."

We chattered on in this way for another fifteen minutes or so, until with a sigh of dissent, Phoebe thumped back into the seat in front of me. "That's all of them," she said to midair, and promptly began to fold up her garbage bag, clucking with unhappiness when the wrinkles didn't flatten out properly. When I turned, her sister was knocked out, snoring contentedly with her head draped backwards over her chair. Her sunglasses were sliding up on her forehead and I was treated to a lovely view of the inside of her nostrils.

_Damn… that girl really needs a tissue._

Lux hissed from my right, "Lory! _Lory!_" I twisted around to look at her, and she was staring at me wide-eyed and making little glances around me at War. I glanced at him – he was half-smiling at me with one eyebrow lifted up – and back at Lux. _"What?"_ I mouthed, and she rolled her eyes. "Tell you later," she muttered dismissively, and her head clunked down on the desk and she cheerfully began to snore.

"Who's your friend?" Warren asked interestedly.

"Oh, that's Lux," I answered, distracted momentarily by the fact that Phoebe had just leaned backwards and was sweeping my desk with her hair.

_I hate my class…_

* * *

Mrs. Cole bustled in about fifteen minutes later.

I will not sugar-coat her description; Mrs. Cole is fat. Not in the pleasant, dumplingesque way re Lux, but in the unpleasant, rolls-of-fat-oh-my-God-it-burns-my-eyes way re people who eat a stupid amount of fatty foods for every meal even though they have a slow metabolism. Her hair is piled up on her head in a giant mousy beehive, always stuck through with some chopsticks from the local Panda Garden, and she wears way too much makeup. Seriously, you can't see the natural color of her skin, she wears so much bronzer. Her eyeliner is about an inch and a half thick, and whenever she blinks her fake eyelashes start detaching and she has to 'casually' stick them back on. Legend has it that once the power went out and her eyelash detached, and she had to stick it back on in the dark. When the lights came back on, her lashes were fluttering in the middle of her eyelid. She always wears pastels, mainly pink, and her shoes make the most annoying slapping sound as she walks.

Not to mention she sounds like a donkey.

"Good morning, class!" Mrs. Cole brayed, eying us through her toadlike, mud-colored eyes. "I know it's Christmas break next week – yes, I'm excited too – but we _cannot slack!_ This is a very important time for you all because exams are coming up after the break–"

A groan of unhappiness gurgled up from the class, and Melanie – who had awakened at the first sound of Cole's raucous voice – shouted, "But Mrs. Cole, that's not fair! I'm not even enrolled in this class!"

Mrs. Cole eyed her darkly for a moment, then inquired, "Phoebe, who is your sister today?"

"Lara Montgomery, ma'am," Phoebe sighed, slipping her sunglasses off of her face and tapping them in a staccato rhythm on her desk. "She's a runaway from England who had to stow away in a plane. She ran all the way from the airport to my house and is currently masquerading as my sister."

"Please, please don't send me back to England!" Melanie begged, the accent stronger than ever. "They'll make me wash the dishes and scrub the floors and shovel the stables and—"

"That is enough, Ms. Skelton!" Mrs. Cole snapped, and glared at Phoebe. "I will be having a discussion with your parents, Phoebe, about Melanie's constant inability to tune in just when it is imperative that she do so."

"Yes ma'am," Phoebe whispered, donning her sunglasses and sinking down into her seat. I felt sorry for her. Melanie was always changing roles during class and writing screenplays when we were supposed to be reviewing the calendar… it was amusing the first time, but after a while it just got irritating, and God knows it was difficult enough carrying on a conversation with her.

"Anyway," Cole burbled, stepping up to the whiteboard and uncapping a marker, "the exam schedule is as follows—"

There was a sudden, shrill noise that made me gasp and clap my hands over my ears. It was a shocking noise, a sound that cut through my eardrums and rattled my thoughts in my brain. _What is it!? What is that sound!?! WHAT IS THAT SOUND!? _I was just beginning to panic about it when—

It stopped. I sat up gingerly. Then I remembered.

…_Oh. It's the school bell._

_I know it well._

Warren was staring at me amusedly from my left, Lux giggling behind her hand at me from my right. I flipped them both off and folded my arms, staring tiredly at my desk. Cole turned and glanced at the clock. Her eyes narrowed.

"Well," she said finally. "It appears to be noon, which means that you are all dismissed."

The groan of unhappiness that had returned her announcement about exams was trumped instantly by the loud roar of insane, teenage ecstasy that was released. I jumped up and followed the crowd out the door, getting caught shoulder-to-shoulder with Lux until one of my classmates whose name I'd never bothered to learn, and never gotten close enough to without being run away from to learn anyway, shoved her out of the way.

I skipped down the hall to my locker, throwing it open and pulling my crumpled-looking empty backpack out and tossing it onto my shoulder. Lux, her own bag slung across her back, scuttled up to my elbow, chattering rapidly about studying and her Christmas wish-list and her broken iPod and her new website – in that order.

Her excited babble was such that I had stumbled downstairs and out the door of the school (and gotten blinded by an unexpected ray of sunshine) before I remembered I had left my present from Phoebe on my desk.

"Crap!" I yelled out in the middle of Lux telling me about image maps. "Sorry, Lux, but I have to go get Phoebe's present! She'll yell at me for ages if I get back from break and it's still on my desk – she'll freaking _kill _me!"

Lux, who had also been a victim of Phoebe's manic rants, nodded frantically. "Go get it," she urged. "I'll wait he—"

"Lux!" came a cry from the parking lot, and as we glanced up, we saw Lux's brother Vincent leaning out of the open window of a shiny blue minivan. He waved at us urgently and yelled, "Lux! Get your ass over here, the rentals are going to be so pissed if we don't get to the airport—"

"_Shit,_" Lux breathed, turning to hug me around the waist – which was about as high as she could reach. "I gotta go, Lory, you'll be okay walking home, ri—"

She was cut off by a blast from the horn of the van, and her other brother, Laurence, appeared over the top of the car and shouted, "Lux! Move it!"

With an apologetic look, my friend raced off to the car and threw herself in the back, complaining in a voice that sounded like a fly's buzzing from where I stood. I waved, then whirled around and sprinted back into the building.

The halls sounded so strange when I was running through them alone; my breathing echoed oddly, my footsteps eerily loud as I ascended the stairs.

Phoebe's green-wrapped present sat forlornly on my desk. I scooped it up and shoved it into my backpack with a harried mumble. Other students had left their Phoebe-presents on their desks, I saw, and inwardly cringed for the rants they would receive when school resumed. Phoebe was a kind person, usually – but when someone showed some sign of disrespecting her kindness she flew into an absolute rage and was a terror to behold. Usually I headed her off at once by saying "Yes, yes, I'm a horrible person," and running away as fast as I could.

I turned around and flew out the door with the same urgency I had raced in, clattering quickly down the hall and down the stairs. I wasn't looking where I was going, though, and—

—slammed into Warren Tyrsson, who was crossing the hallway in front of the stairs. My nose collided with his temple and I toppled forward, knocking us both to the ground in a jumbled heap.

After some irritated shrieking (mine) and pained mumbles (his), we finally scooted far enough away from each other to regard each other balefully through identical amethyst-colored eyes. I was struck again by that odd resemblance… he rescued me from a monster only I thought I could see, and has my eyes.

It was suspicious, was what it was.

"Sorry about that," I finally apologized, lowering my eyes and rubbing my nose. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Oh, no, it's all right," Warren returned. He shrugged a shoulder. "I was preoccupied."

"Reliving your moment of glorious dragonslaying?" I said without thinking, and instantly clapped a hand over my mouth.

_CRAP!_

_CRAPCRAPCRAPCRAPCRAP!_

_Did I just say what I thought I said!?_

I dared to glance at Warren – no, War – and to my consternation I saw him smiling.

"Close," he said casually. In a graceful movement I couldn't mimic if I practiced for hours, he got to his feet directly from sitting down without using his hands. He leaned forward and offered me one, continuing, "I was considering the possibility that there were more of his kind. Svafnir, I know, is a danger – she's his sister, one of the more human of Nidhogg's brood – and Goin, Fafnir, and Grafvitnir. They've been pursuing me ever since Idaho, 'cos they know I'm looking for someone who'd be lovely prey for them."

"Who'd that be?" I inquired gravely, and he smiled wryly and fixed me in his gaze again.

"And here I thought you were so smart, Mallory," he chided, yanking me up from my seat and dropping his hands back to his sides. "Everyone I've met post-class has told me you're smart. Are they _wrong?_"

"Call me Lory," I returned. My tone was flat and to-the-point. "And walk me home. I'd like to know just what the hell you're playing at, War. And I'd like to know how exactly I can get the dragons out of the picture."

Warren's face lit up in a wide grin, and he offered me his arm. "It would be my pleasure," he said gallantly. "My lady?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not your anything," I muttered irritably as I began the long trek down the hallway to the door. "Except maybe your friend. And-or acquaintance. I like acquaintance…"

"It's a long story."

"I've got a long walk."

Warren sighed and trotted down the hallway after me, blinking at the sudden rush of sunlight that assaulted our eyes. When we were a suitable distance away from the school, he stopped; he turned to me, unzipped his backpack, and produced the same sword he had used to slay Ofnir that morning.

It glittered glorious red in the Seattle sunlight; the runes upon it were more obvious than ever. I looked at him, then at it, and back again.

"Yeeees?"

His dark eyes were troubled as he searched my face, then with a great huff of tired patience, he strapped the sword to his side and said quietly, "What do you know about Norse mythology?"

* * *

… _whut?_

"… er… nothing, I guess," I said hesitantly. Warren's eyes narrowed slightly. "We never got around to it in English. Not enough time in the year 'n' all." On an impulse, I swung around and kicked out at an innocent pebble. My shoe connected with it and it soared across the street, crashing into the curb with a _clink!_

Warren sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "Well, that makes things a bit more difficult, doesn't it?"

"Hey," I objected, lifting a finger at him in dissent. "I never said I _did_ know nothing. I said I _guessed_ I knew nothing. There. Is. A. Difference."

I received a dry look and an equally dry "I wasn't aware," but I caught the flicker of a grin when Warren turned his face away to 'casually glance' at the house to our left. I stuck out my tongue at him while he wasn't looking and propped my elbow on his shoulder. He eyed me out of the corner of his eye.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm standing."

"M_hm._"

He knocked my arm off of his shoulder – I made an aggrieved face – and held his arm out so that I nearly walked into it. A car blew past us, and I blinked.

Oh.

I hadn't realized that we were at a curb.

Whee, not getting run over!

Once another few cars had raced past us like they were being chased by the SUVs of hell, Warren dropped his arm and we continued across the street.

"Well, okay," he said conversationally, once the Street of Hell was left behind us. "What do you _guess_ you know?"

"I remember that the world wasn't a ball or a flat plane… it was like, a tree? With heaven on top? Yeah. And I remember the words Aesir and Vanir… though I don't remember what they were…"

I heard a strangled noise that sounded like a dying pigeon, and glanced over to see Warren clenching his fists. He looked like he was restraining the urge to attack me with a mallet.

If he had a mallet.

Which he didn't.

But that wasn't the point.

"The Aesir," he choked out, "are the principal gods of Norse mythology. Odin One-Eye is one of them, as is Tyr, the god of War. Loki, Heimdall, and Balder are also of them. I can't list all the names now…"

He had managed to uncurl his right fist and was now prodding at the other one in an attempt to pry it open. "…since I hardly think I could explain the Vanir if I did… but I will say that they are warrior gods, and that the Vanir are often regarded as nature gods. You'd have to talk to Skadi about that one," this said with a wry smile, "she's more warlike than most, I'd say."

I raised an eyebrow and nodded at him. Warren had managed to flatten out both of his hands and was currently taking deep breaths, attempting not to kill me.

Can you say, _temper?_

"And the Vanir," he continued, a bit more calm now, "are comprised of nature gods, as I said. Njord was one before he joined the Aesir, as was Freyr and his sister Freyja. Ull, god of hunting, and Skadi, goddess of winter. There are more, but I don't remember them…"

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath. "And then there's Hel."

I glanced up at him, suddenly feeling the mood grow darker. "Yeah?"

"Hel… rules over Hel. She is the goddess of the realm of death, similar to the Greek Hades, except Hades isn't so special as to have a whole realm named after him." He cracked a smile, and I snorted slightly.

"Her father is Loki, and I'm not exaggerating to you when I tell you she hates him. Her mother is a giantess. Unfortunately, she fell in love with Balder a few centuries back and got Loki to kill him…" He made a swirling motion in the air with his finger, as if to indicate it all went down the drain. "Balder disliked her just as much dead as he did alive. And so, sadly, _bork_ went the god of beauty, and Freyja stepped up and took his place."

"Well isn't that just lovely," I said sarcastically. "I'm really starting to love Norse mythology."

He patted me on the head. "Don't worry, it gets better."

"Oh, Lord."

"You remember what you said about the World Tree?" he asked, and in the same breath, "well, it's sort of true. Think of the world…" he held out his hands as if holding an orb "… and now think of that world speared through with a tree."

I humored him, closing my eyes and imagining it… although where would that tree grow? I voiced this query to him, but he only smiled.

"Well, the tree has three roots," he explained. "One grows in the sacred spring of Mimir, one in the Well of Urd, and the last in the realm of the dead, though why it would grow there is beyond me… and of course, Nidhogg gnaws at it daily."

"And what about the stars? Wouldn't they be blocked by the tree's branches?"

"Ah, see, that's where the ingeniousness comes in." He grinned widely. "The stars hang at the end of the branches like Christmas baubles – like the ones on that tree, for example!" Warren pointed across the street to a winter-stripped tree hung with many large, round Christmas ornaments. As I looked, he continued, "The sun is the star that hangs closest, like that blue ornament to the tree trunk. The moon rotates around the earth as it normally would, drawn in by gravity."

"Well… why hasn't NASA discovered it yet?"

"NASA?" Warren threw back his head and laughed. "NASA is blind. They see what they want to see. Right now they're too busy looking at planets besides ours to see ours."

"… really?" I had expected him to laugh it off, saying _Lory, Lory, Lory… the people at school told me you were gullible, but I never expected this._

"It's true, Lory."

I stopped, eying him carefully. "What do you mean, it's true? Isn't this all a big joke?"

We were at my street, now, and Warren turned to look steadily at me. "Mallory," he said evenly, putting his hands on my shoulders, "there are some things you need to know about the world."

* * *

I shrugged his hands off of my shoulders, taking a step past him towards my house. "We can discuss this just as well on my porch as here," I said brusquely. I heard his footsteps start up again behind me.

"Well, okay," he said reluctantly, catching up to me and staring at me with worried burgundy eyes. "But can I explain part of it on the walk there?"

"Sure. Whatever. Go ahead."

His eyes narrowed at me, but he shoved his hands in his pockets before he could lose control and try to beat the crap out of me – as it looked like he might do at any moment. "Okay… well. I expect you're well-acquainted with Greek mythology?"

I nodded curtly, and he took that to mean to continue. "Well… they're real."

That was shocking enough to make me stop in my tracks and spin around. "What?"

"They're real, Mallory," he said seriously, staring at me with wide, truthful eyes. "The Greek gods, they exist here in the USA. They live in New York City. Their Olympus is, I believe, in the Empire State Building…"

"Well, then what was all the jabbering about the Norse myths?"

"Well, Lory… that's kind of what I needed to say. They're real too."

I think I stopped breathing, and my face must have started to turn blue, because his face suddenly looked panicked. "Mallory? _Mallory!_ Are you okay?!"

"Hang… on…" I choked out. "It's… surprise… it'll pass… soon…"

I sank down onto the sidewalk and breathed deeply a few times until my lungs felt normal. Then, "You're joking."

"No…"

"Oh, next you're going to tell me that I'm a goddess," I said sarcastically, pushing a hand through my hair. "Yeah, maybe that goddess of winter, that's why everyone runs away from me—"

"You mean Skadi?" His expression was calculating. "Maybe… but no. You're not a goddess. I've met Skadi, and she's a lot taller than you are. Bunches scarier, too—"

"Then _what are you saying?!_"

He took a deep breath and crouched down besides me, balancing on the balls of his feet. "Well… you know how I said the Greek gods were real? They're awfully real… and they're still having kids."

I must have looked all blue again, because he hurried on to say, "There's a camp for them in New York State, on Long Island, called Camp Half-Blood. I've been there, once, last year, but I got kicked out. They told me they didn't want _our kind_ in their precious Camp Half-Blood…"

His voice had turned bitter, and while I attempted to keep breathing, Warren punched the ground angrily. A small spatter of blood spurted across the sidewalk, and I flinched.

He picked up his hand and eyed his bloody knuckles with a mixture of irritation and resignation. "I need to stop doing that," he sighed, and wiped the blood off on his jeans.

"What are you trying to say, War?" I choked out. He glanced back at me and sighed.

"Get up, Mallory," he said tiredly, and helped me up. I staggered around for a moment, before grasping his shoulder for balance and finally standing upright. He helped me down the sidewalk a little more, then up the path and into the porch swing of our house. He sat down on the swing besides me, hands folded in his lap.

"What I'm trying to say, Mallory," he said slowly, "is that there are demigods in the world. Not only Greek ones, but Norse, and Egyptians – although I've never actually seen an Egyptian demigod, only heard of their camp. It's somewhere in Arizona. They call it the Sanctuary of the Nile."

Okay. There were demigods. I could deal with that.

"And what does this all have to do with me?"

Warren looked away, glancing at the house across the street, before his gaze abruptly snapped back to me. His eyes were blazing redly, and he said strongly, "What I'm trying to tell you, Mallory, is that there are demigods. And you are one of them."

* * *

**BRIEF A/N:**

_of the world tree_

There is actually a world tree in Norse mythology. However, the format that it is in did not comply with the form of the Earth, so I adapted the myth slightly. If there is actually anyone who's an expert on Norse myths reading this, please do not track me down and kill me with a mallet. I have adapted several myths for this fic. And if you have problems with that, look at Riordan. In the original Greek myths, Cronus/Kronos was loved. When he ruled it was the golden age of man. Yet you can't deal with me changing the world tree format a bit.

Please leave a review. Thank you for reading.

-Thai


	4. Of Myself, Chores, and my Mother's Loss

****

Chapter Three

**Of Myself, Chores, and the Loss of my Mother**

* * *

I stared at him for a moment, completely bewildered. Then, as he continued to look seriously at me, I burst out laughing.

"Oh, you're good," I finally gasped out in between giggles. "I almost believed you there for a moment."

His eyes went all dark and red again. "Mallory—"

I waved him off, still sniggering. "I'll see you after the break, okay, War?" The swing wiggled slightly when I slid off of it, but it was still mostly balanced thanks to Warren's weight on the end.

"Lory, I'm serious—"

"You could be a really good writer someday," I told him. My keys jingled when I pulled them out of my pocket. "Just keep on with your imagination, except don't tell just anyone because then they'll think you're insane and lock you away."

"But—"

"Hush," I shushed him. My key rattled in the lock, and I finally yanked the door open with a _bang_. Once the echo had died away, I continued, "And thank you for killing the dragon this morning, but somehow I doubt very much that he's from Norse mythology. Aren't dragons, like, English?"

"They can be, but Ofnir and Nidhogg are about as English as Skadi—"

"Look, it was nice talking to you," I said firmly, "but I'm just going to go do all the things my mother can't do. All right? And thanks so much for the mythology lesson."

And I stepped into the house and slammed the door in his disbelieving face.

* * *

"Be prepaaaarrrreeeed," I hummed under my breath, flinging my backpack over to the hook that jutted out of the wall for it. Unlike usual, it didn't creak under the weight; probably because my backpack was almost totally empty.

A crashing _bang!_ behind me made me jump, until I realized it was just Warren banging on the door. "Come _on,_ Mallory!" he yelled. "You have to let me in! I have to talk to yo—"

I reached over and flipped the deadbolt into its locked position, then dragged the pair of chains into their holsters. It never hurt to have too much security – especially when lunatics who believed that the Norse gods were real started banging on your doors.

"Go home, Warren," I shouted through the door. "Go home and take your meds."

He was quiet for a moment, then I heard the scuffing sound of shoes shuffling away across our sidewalk. A momentary patter of rain above my head, like a bunch of tiny mice scurrying across my roof, then silence again.

I took a deep breath.

As I moved across the wide entry room to the staircase, a shadow fell across the window and I heard the rumble of distant thunder. By the time I had reached the landing, it had begun to rain, and as I traversed the _next_ staircase, the one to my room, I heard the pounding of rain on my tower roof.

I emerged into my room, which was dark and gloomy thanks to the shutter being closed. Instead of opening it in the rain, which would be like shattering the Hoover Dam, I fumbled around on my night table for a moment and finally produced a box of matches.

I scuttled around my room, lighting my candles, until the room was once again filled with a warm glow.

Once the room had warmed up slightly, I extinguished all but one candle, which I carried in my hand all the way down the stairs and across the hall into the study.

The study was a long, large room with a ladder that went all the way up to a landing that stretched around the entire room on the inside of the walls. The odd thing was that the blue door visible to me on the right side of the landing was a fake; it was a door glued to the wall with such skill that I had often attempted to yank its handle to get downstairs with no result.

Almost all the walls were covered with books but for a small corner below the landing and hidden behind the ladder, and it was to this corner that I headed.

A desktop PC was stashed under a haphazard desk here, and I kicked the start-up button and flopped down into the swivel chair. While the monitor wheezed awake, I amused myself spinning around in circles while simultaneously trying to remove my shoes.

When my shoes were flung across the room and I was dizzy, I blew out the candle and flicked on the table lamp. The login screen popped to life, and I clicked on my name, cracked my fingers, and typed my password – _fearmeorthepockygetsit2346._

My desktop appeared on the screen, nothing but a plain black background with the words, in white, "If you're reading this, you have five seconds to live." I ignored this dire warning, choosing instead to click open AIM.

Lux, _gingerbreadmansworstnightmare_, was logged on. (Of course, she was the only one on my buddy list, so it was a bit obvious.) I clicked.

_**TruffleQueen13: **_

My cursor-line blinked for a moment. Then I bent over the decrepit keyboard and tapped out my message.

_**TruffleQueen13:**__ Oi gingerbread girl. Shouldn't you be at the airport?_

The reply was a brief time in coming. And apparently Lux wasn't happy with me.

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare:**__ NAAARRRGGHHHHH._

_**TruffleQueen13:**__ O_O WHAT?_

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__YOU MADE ME LOSE TRACK OF WHERE WE WERE IN THE BOTTLE SONG._

Of course. I rolled my eyes.

_**TruffleQueen13:**__ My question goes unanswered, o mystic one. _

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__it's called a laptop, genius_

_**TruffleQueen13: **__DAMMIT, LUX._

_**TruffleQueen13:**__ ANSWER THE QUESTION OR THE POCKY GETS IT._

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__NOOO. POCKYYYY._

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare:**__ driving to airport. Vincent is singing a hundred bottles of beer and Laurence is trying to see over my shoulder. Going to have to put the laptop up in a bit._

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__JUST DON'T HURT THE POCKY. _

_**TruffleQueen13: **__… you don't even like Pocky. _

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__oh, that's true. nevermind then._

I snorted out loud. The sound of crashing thunder overhead brought my attention back to the storm outside. A fleeting memory came to me… wasn't it dangerous to be using the computer during a storm?

I relayed my concerns to Lux.

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare:**__ isn't that swimming?_

_**TruffleQueen13:**__ Oh, swimming, IMing. Same thing._

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__not until they invent AVPIM_

_**TruffleQueen13: **__… what?_

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__aol virtual pool instant messaging_

_**TruffleQueen13: **__Oh. I get it. Witty._

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare: **__I know you are, but what am I?_

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare:**__ OH WAIT. CRAP. NEVERMIND._

After about another half an hour of this stupidity, the power flickered. I glanced up. _Gotta go,_ I typed quickly. _Power is going zappish on me and if it dies then no more internet for a while._

_**gingerbreadmansworstnightmare:**__ kays. IM me when it comes back on or you die in a fire_

_**TruffleQueen13: **__ooh, I'm scared. But alright. _

I logged off of AIM and shut down the computer. With another scrape of a match along the side of the matchbox, which I had actually remembered to bring down this time, I lit my candle and flicked off the lamp.

* * *

Dark grey light shone in through the window set high into the west wall, above the bookshelves, as I skittered across the room. The rain was pounding heavily by this time, a constant underlying roar of thunder hiding behind the crash of rain. A crack of blue lightning, a sudden smash of thunder – I winced.

The rain had almost always gotten on my nerves, especially when it was violent and moody like this. My dad liked to say that on these days, Thor and Zeus had apparently teamed up to ruin our mood. (Dad used to be an English professor at my high school – he left when I entered, of course, not wanting to be associated with me any more than necessary – and always taught his class the basics of Norse, Egyptian, and Greek mythology. His class was kickass, according to a few seniors.)

But then as I had these thoughts, the rain slowed and the thunder died away, until it was simply a constant patter on my roof. I breathed in, then out.

I really needed to stop freaking out about the rain.

I blew out the candle and set it down on the three-legged ebony table outside the study door. The light was coming in better now, a pale white-blue light that was normal for Seattle winter, and I negotiated the hallways in silence, finally stumbling downstairs and into the kitchen.

The sink was piled high with dishes from that morning's breakfast; two glasses sat neatly side-by-side next to the sink. One was half-filled with orange juice, the other had the stains of dark red-black juice that seemed like blood.

It wasn't. It was cranberry juice.

About six inches away from these sat a black mug, and when I approached the sink and peered into it, I could see the dregs of my dad's morning coffee – hazelnut creamer and no sugar. I took a hesitant sniff. Yes, definitely hazelnut. With a dramatic sigh for the benefit of nobody, I removed a scrunchie from a holder placed on the counter for exactly that purpose and wrenched my hair back into a clumsy ponytail.

Then I slipped on my yellow gloves that struck fear into dirty dishes everywhere, and began my reign of terror.

The first thing I did was snatch the scrub brush and the soap from the cabinet, then attacked the dishes. As I scrubbed and squirted and grunted with effort – those egg bits are hard to clear off – my mind was wandering through the day. Mostly this morning. _But if Warren was lying,_ I wondered, setting the first clean plate neatly by the sink, _then where did the dragon come from? It certainly didn't look like a European dragon. Aren't European dragons big, green, and lizardlike?_

A plate slipped from my hands, landing with a _clunk_ in the sink. I retrieved it mechanically.

_What if I'm hallucinating? Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe I'll wake up in the middle of washing the dishes and discover that I've slept through the entire last day of school for the winter. Or that I've overslept and there is no Warren. Or that I fell asleep in Mrs. Carter's class and she'll whip my ass with words when I wake up._

But then I placed the last plate on the rapidly-growing pile next to the sink, and looked up. Before me, hanging above the counter in between two windows, was a large framed photograph.

A tall, dark-haired man with narrow jade eyes stood with his arms wrapped around the shoulders of the woman in the chair before him. She was tall as well, though not quite as tall as he, and her face was turned aside, showing her profile as she gazed down at the child in her arms. The visible eye was a dark purple – though, my dad used to tell me back when we still thought she'd come back – the other was a brilliant green, so green as to make the grass seem yellow. Her hair was a dark black, though in the photograph it had a blue-purple sheen. Her skin was the color of ivory.

The child in her arms stared up at her with wide, expectant eyes. She was only a few months old, her head covered in dark silky curls, while her eyes were a violet-indigo hue that would, I knew, darken to maroon in her later years. Her skin was a mix between the man's light peach and the woman's pallid coloring.

I stared, transfixed, at the photo for a moment, then I dropped my eyes to the sink. Because now I knew it wasn't a dream.

If it were a dream, my mother would be here.

And now, I think, it is time for an explanation.

* * *

Dolores and I have different mothers. She doesn't know that. I do.

My mother met my father at a book fair in Olympia. Back then she still wore glasses, my father tells me; and after a long conversation about everything from Shakespeare to the merits of various films in the news at that time, they found themselves exchanging phone numbers. My dad was nervous about calling her, he tells me, but just as he was picking up the phone, it rang.

When he answered, my mother was on the other end of the line, saying, "Hi, it's me. I knew you wouldn't call, so I decided to call myself."

Helen was her name, he told me. Helen Rapp. After that one phone call, they met up many times, although sometimes my mother would say "No, sorry, I can't stay," or "I'm sorry, but I have other plans." After these rejections, they'd always meet up for a coffee or some other equally un-fluffy drink at the closest Starbucks. My father always told me that she used to jokingly call it Charbucks. "Take it black and hot and you'll be ashes in no time," she said.

Of course, these innocent meetings sometimes turned into something a bit less PG. Their heated affair, if you could call it that, lasted about two years, until finally my dad got tired of the playing around and asked her to marry him.

For some reason, Mom freaked. She had a total meltdown, right there on the porch swing (my dad had lived in this house for years – it's seen a lot of history), and basically screamed at him to get out of her life. My dad retreated to his room, shocked and hurt, because he didn't understand how his witty and wonderful Helen could have suddenly turned on him like this.

Then, two weeks later, Mom came back. She apologized, as level-headed as you please, for freaking out on him, and, well, they had a bit of make-up non-PG loving. At this point in the story, Dad always zones out and stares at the wall, lost in a memory. Can we say, ew?

Then after that little episode, Mom said yes.

And then she disappeared.

For about ten months, Helen Rapp disappeared off of the face of the earth. My dad went frantic with worry, calling the authorities, the CIA, the FBI, until finally he just broke and went off to lie down on his bed for a couple of weeks.

At the end of his depression, when he finally had the energy to move, the doorbell rang. And when he answered it, there his Helen stood, holding a dark-haired baby with indigo eyes.

Mom told him not to question where she had been, and he accepted it, albeit reluctantly. She lived with him for another month, teaching him about the baby – which was, obviously, me – and then they took the photograph that now hung above the counter on the opposite end of the dining table. The photographer commented, my dad said, on how lovely we looked together, and Helen had inexplicably returned the compliment with a snarl.

The day after, she disappeared, leaving me behind and my dad all alone. This time, however, she left a note.

_Don't look for me,_ the note said. _I won't be back. I'm sorry, but I won't be back. There's so much I've missed out on just being here, and there's still so many I have to know._

I remember nothing of this, but my father never lies. And there were plenty of photographs in his photo album; my father with his arm around the shoulder of a woman with dark hair and mismatched eyes, one of which glinted greenly. The woman lying on her side on the sofa in our living room, one hand resting lightly on the floor, with her eyes fixed on the television. The woman cradling a baby in her arms on the porch swing with my father next to her.

And then, when I was six years old, Roxanne came along.

Roxanne was a tall blonde, with blue eyes so blue that they almost hurt you to look at them. She had nothing in common with my father. Nothing at all. I wondered if, maybe, she had charmed him into bringing her home from Starbucks; cast a spell on him to _make_ him offer her a ride home; jinxed him into accepting when she leaned over and whispered the suggestion that they go to his place instead.

They had a small fling that night, and then she was gone in the morning. My dad didn't care. Roxanne was nothing compared to Helen, and since Helen was gone, he regarded her as a tool. Just something to occupy his time while he waited for his fiancée to come home to her daughter.

Of course, Roxanne wasn't just a tool. She showed up at his doorstep eight months later, miraculously pregnant, and stuck around during the last month of her pregnancy just to whine at my father about getting her pregnant because dammit, this kid was going to _ruin her figure_ and _she was too young to have children_ and hello, if you didn't want to have kids, maybe you shouldn't have gone and put a love spell on my father.

Once the kid was born, Roxanne was off like a shot, leaving my dad to deal with a newborn and a seven-year-old.

Thank God I was no ordinary seven-year-old.

Most children would have shied away from caring for their newborn sister, preferring to sulk in their rooms and demand their own father's attention. I, however, realized exactly what had happened to my father. One wife lost, another unwanted, and two children from his unlucky affairs. So I flung myself into helping with Dolores, or Dolly as I called her affectionately. Instead of my father waking up at night to feed her or rock her, it was me, springing up and out of bed before Dolly could get out her second wail.

I was still pleased, however, when she turned five and could take care of herself. I was twelve then, and the loss of my mother was more apparent than ever. Dad never took me shopping when I seriously needed a new shirt – "Why not borrow one of your friend's?" he always said. "Dad," I returned impatiently, "I don't _have_ any friends. And I'm too much of a giant to fit into them anyways." – or understood just why I needed new boots. "They still fit you!" was his eternal comeback.

I went fifteen years and seven months without a mother.

And yet, the loss of her always hurts whenever I look at that one photograph, or when I see her in my dreams and she tells me that she's proud.

* * *

A droplet of water plopped into the sink. I blinked, feeling something wet on my cheeks. "I must have splashed some water on my face washing the dishes," I lied to myself, beginning to scrub again with renewed vigor.

After I'd cleaned the crud off of the dishes, I kicked open the rickety dishwasher and set the scrubbed dishes in to wash. The mug and glasses were filled with hot water and soap and set out to de-crud. I kicked the dishwasher shut and prodded the power button with the toe of my shoe, and once the humming of the washer began, I turned my back and headed towards the kettle.

Minutes later the coffee maker's tank was filled with water, and I'd placed some spicy orange teabags in the kettle. I swung up onto the counter, listening to the combined sounds of bubbling water in the kettle and humming from the washer. I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. It had been a trying day; running from dragons in the morning, putting up with weird pagan boys in class, getting stuck with _irritating_ weird pagan boys on the way home, and then having to do the dishes and recount family history in my head.

I was tired.

The kettle stopped bubbling, and I opened my eyes resignedly. I slid off the counter and yanked open the cabinet with the crappy lock, scanning the cups within before extracting the mug I'd made at Mad Potter a while ago. It was black, with white words scrawled upon it in drippy script.

"Bite me," it proclaimed, "I'm a cup."

I turned it upside-down and shook it, making sure nothing like a dead cockroach was in it, as had happened before. When nothing fell out, I removed the kettle from its holder and poured a thick dark-orange liquid into the mug. The warm, peppery smell of it cleared my nose and made me feel a little light-headed.

I stumbled drunkenly over to the living room and sat down on the couch. My tea slopped in its mug. I carefully placed it on the coffee table and lay down on my side, staring peacefully at the window.

My eyes hurt. I pressed a hand to my left eye and turned over onto my back, wondering vaguely if Warren was still lurking outside and if I could go out onto the front porch without worrying about being stalked.

So tired… I yawned without thinking, then sat up and rubbed at my forehead. _Maybe I should take a nap,_ I thought groggily. The clock said it was about two in the afternoon. Good time for a nap.

I reached for my tea and gulped it down, before staggering to my feet and setting the mug next to the sink for the next person who got there – which would probably be me – to clean it up. Then I stumbled up the stairs, clutching at my head. A headache was coming on, probably from thinking about my mother and the stress of today.

I took a wrong turn on the way to my staircase, ending up colliding into a wall instead of the door. I lurched backwards, shaking my head. "I really do need a nap," I decided, turning around to creak open the door.

There was another jawsplitting yawn, then I ascended the stairs. Upon reaching my room, I nudged my sneakers off and wrenched off my scrunchie. The rain had stopped completely by now, so I opened the shutters and threw back the curtains on my bed.

Pale blue sunlight streamed into my room, and I set my chin on the windowsill to stare with eyes glazed by exhaustion at the neighborhood around me. "I wonder if IHop's still open," I mused. "Maybe we can get dinner there tonight. Shame they don't serve spaghetti anymore…"

With my weird food-related thoughts complete, I stretched my arms out the window and cracked my back, then fell back onto the bed and curled into the pillow. One hand groped for my furry blanket, then once the probing fingers found it, dragged it over my shoulders so my neck wouldn't get cold.

Then I lay there for a while, eyes closed and breathing slowing down to an even pace. Yet my mind still whirred with thoughts, mostly about Warren.

If he wasn't telling the truth, then he was a lunatic. But if he wasn't a lunatic, then he was a compulsive liar. And what about the dragon? It sure threw a wrench into my whole lunatic scheme.

After a while, I sat up. My tiredness had evaporated.

I cradled my face in my hands, wondering what had happened to me that morning if I hadn't really been chased by Ofnir. If he was real, then what the hell had he been doing chasing me? If he was a hallucination, then what the hell was I doing hallucinating about him?

And if Warren hadn't lied, then what the hell was I going to do now?

Then I remembered.

_It was a book, very much larger and heavier than my Narnian Chronicles. The runes engraved onto the War-boy's sword were embossed onto this scarlet cover as well. When I flipped it open, there were several hundred pages of typed text, woodcuts, various sections and names that seemed only vaguely familiar. About half of the book was lined, blank paper, and a quarter of that was written on with an elegant, spiky hand._

_I glanced up at the boy and raised an eyebrow. "A journal?"_

_War's eyes narrowed. "Read it," he barked harshly, and tossed something else at me. I snagged it with one of my hands; it was my backpack, left behind who knew how long ago to flee from the now-dead Ofnir. _

"_You'll be needing it," he said coldly, and as I shouldered it, he began to walk away._

Well.

Now we know that I won't win any A's in memory class.

* * *

I sprinted downstairs, my feet going almost faster than me in their insistence to get to the book. In fact, I fell down the last flight of stairs, slamming my hand in between my shoulder and the wall. Once I'd collected myself, I limped towards the backpack hook.

With my un-slammed hand, I yanked the pack off of its hook and dumped the contents out onto the floor. Miscellaneous junk spilled out onto the hardwood floor, and I swore loudly. "_Damn _it!"

I fell to my knees and brushed the rubbish of paper, half-written essays, and chapstick off of War's journal. The runes, dark red in the ruby of the book cover, seemed just as mysterious to me now as they always did; a line rising upwards, with two lines extending from it like the hand in a child's cartoon; an arrow that pointed upwards towards the hand; and the Z that looked like it had been flipped and skewed.

Runes.

_Nordic runes,_ I realized, amazed once more at my stupidity, and then I was running towards the study again.

There was no spinning now when I waited for the computer to hiss to life, and I misspelled my password six times until finally, with an impatient snarl, I hacked Dolores' account. AIM logged me on automatically, but I logged off before Lux could IM me.

This was no time for chatting. I was on a mission.

I opened up Internet Explorer, my hands flying over the keyboard as I typed in Google's address. It popped to life, and with trembling fingers, I typed in _"nordic runes."_

When I searched for it on the web, I got an irritating amount of blah that I didn't need. I switched to image mode and immediately hit the jackpot.

I clicked on a likely link, opened it up to full view, and began referencing the runes.

_The cartoon hand – Protection. The arrow – Warrior. The inverted Z – Defense._

And only a warrior would carry a sword, I realized now. That or a lunatic. But what I'd seen of Warren so far was completely sane.

So did that mean that he wasn't lying? Did that mean that yes, he was the son of one of the gods?

Did that mean that I, too, was a half-blood?

Suddenly, I felt very tired. Unthinkingly, I shut down the computer and scooped the book into my arms. "I'm going to go take a nap," I said to nobody in particular.

I turned and strode out of the study, up the stairs, and into my bedroom, where I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a deep sleep, troubled by dreams of dragons and gods and runes dancing in front of my eyes.

And as I slept, someone watched.

But I only found out once it was far too late.

* * *

**BRIEF A/N:**

_of the runes and their meanings_

The runes stated to be placed on Warren's sword and book are real Nordic runes, and their meanings are also real. The _warrior_ rune is also known as Tyr. Kudos to Jon Pierce, who figured out who War's godly parent was.

Please leave a review. Thank you for reading.

-Thai


	5. Of Svafnir, Ramen, and a Thickening Plot

**Chapter Four**

**Of Svafnir, Ramen, and a Thickening Plot**

* * *

"Mallory! Oh, for God's sake- _Mallory!_"

"'m up, 'm up!" I grunted, flailing wildly in the air with one hand. My eyes were still squeezed shut, and I wanted to keep them that way for a good long while. God _dammit,_ I was _tired._

My hand connected with something fleshy and soft. I heard a yelp.

"_Mallory!_ You just hit me in the _cheek!_ That _hurt!_"

"Get over it," I mumbled into the pillow. "Go away, Dolly, I'm tired."

There was an angry sigh, and then something heavy plopped down on the back of my knees. I groaned. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"You went to sleep on the couch, stupid," Dolores told me, bouncing up and down on my pajama-clad legs. "Couch is fair game. Now, if you'd gone to sleep in your bedroom –"

"Oh, shut up," I griped, propping myself up on my elbows and rubbing my eye. Dolores giggled and prodded me in the back. "Wake up, sleepy. Don't make me get out the ice bucket."

I turned over and gave her the suspicious eye (much different from the evil eye, you see). "You had a bucket of ice sitting out just to dump on me?"

"Yep!" she chirped unrepentantly. "It's probably bunches melted by now, but all the better. Cold water works so much better than just ice, don't you think?"

I didn't want to know how her mind worked.

I sat up completely, Dolores still sitting comfortably on my knees, and studied my half-sister. Her eyes were as blue as Roxanne's, although they shone vaguely green in the light from the kitchen that spilled through the living-room door. Her hair was a pale golden-brown, the color of milk chocolate, and fell in thick ringlets to her upper arms. When it was wet, it managed to get all the way to her elbows. She had my dad's nose and heavy eyebrows, though hers weren't beetling like his, merely darker than most.

In short, she was gorgeous.

And to think she was only ten years old.

We had a rocky relationship; my reputation overshadowed her, labeling her the sister of the freak-girl from the castle-house. Outside of the house she was a brat, and sometimes inside too – but around me, and around my father at certain times, we had a lot of fun. She was a whiny, obnoxious, over-energized, nerdy freak, but she was my sister, and after all, she couldn't be replaced. Despite her whiny nerdy-ness, Dolores and I had something of a best-friend thing going on. I would kid around with her and attempt to kill her (in fun) and help her with her homework, and in return she would help me with my beast-hair and respect my authority and attempt to kill me (not so much in fun).

Hey, it was better then hiring a babysitter.

"So," I said brightly, "ramen or eggs?"

"Ramen," she decided, sliding off of my knees to the floor. "Noodles sound good right now. As long as it's the creamy chicken stuff. I hate the plain chicken."

"You're not the only one," I acquiesced. I swung my legs off of the couch, shook them to get some circulation back in them, then padded off towards the kitchen with Dolores trailing after me like my shadow.

It was Tuesday; three or four days after War had first appeared to me and told me that I was half-immortal. Since then I had been reading his journal, acquainting myself with the Norse gods. I was almost done with the first, typewritten section, and by then I knew the gods like they were my best friends.

Odin, the one-eyed traveler Allfather, king of the gods. Whenever I closed my eyes and thought about him I imagined a tall grey-haired man with a stubbly beard and a sly smile, with a hat perched on the crown of his head.

Thor, god of thunder, possessor of the hammer Mjollnir. I glanced out the window, brought back to the present by a smash of thunder, and against the flash of lightning from another thunderclap I imagined I saw the outline; a tall, heavily-built man with a long red beard, raising his immortal hammer to create another thundercrack.

Freyja, beautiful goddess of desire. Idun, childish goddess of plenty. Tyr, the brave god of war. I knew them all. And yet, I reflected, it wasn't as if I truly knew them. Because, surely, they couldn't exist?

I shook my head, blowing all the thoughts of the gods out of my head, and turned towards the kitchen cabinets. The ramen was stored on the very top shelf of the left cabinet, so I had to climb up on the counter to reach it. As I did so, Dolores talked, as she did so well.

"So did you hear about that really weird earthquake last Friday?" she asked, busily pouring water into a measuring cup. "Some people say it was like a huge invisible something was walking downtown. Or running! There were shallow imprints of a few feet, they weren't sure how many, and then the imprints got farther and farther apart and _heavy!_ They said it was an earthquake, but I don't think so. … Mallory?"

I had frozen at the first mention of last Friday. Mechanically, I dragged the box of ramen out of the cabinet and clambered down from the counter. "Why wasn't it on the news?"

"Oh, it was," Dolores said brightly, setting the measuring cup in front of me. I ripped open the box. "It came on when you were sleeping in the living room. What is it with you and sleeping during the day? You'll have enough time to do that when you're dead."

"I'm nocturnal, didn't you know?" I returned halfheartedly, shaking the ramen out into the measuring cup. "It lets me practice for my long-distance sleeping competitions."

"… when was the last time you had one of those?"

"I don't know. Alyssa liked them but then she had to move. And Lux pretty much fails at sleeping during the day. Diurnals." I sniffed mock-haughtily at my sister. Dolores laughed. "I'd rather be a diurnal then a bat!"

"Bats are cool," I protested, yanking the microwave open and carefully sliding the very full measuring cup in. The door shut with a creak, and I prodded the buttons of the microwave into submission until with a _beeeep,_ the microwave began to cook my Very Lovely Ramen.

Dolores stretched, cracking her neck with an ominous popping sound, then skipped over to the drawer to extract the silverware needed for our dinner. The microwave beeped after a minute, and I pried the door open and cautiously slid the ramen out. I extended a hand and beckoned, and a fork was slipped into my waiting fingers. I prodded the ramen for a moment with the fork.

After some more jabbing and some "hi-_yah!_"-ing, I twined some noodles around my fork and took a wary bite—

—and immediately spat it out onto the floor.

"Oh, ew!" Dolores cried, backing away from me as if she thought I would decide to spit some more onto her. I made an overexaggerated retching sound, then pushed the bowl of ramen away.

"It. Is. Horrible," I told her, shivering violently. She tossed me a towel and I sank to my knees and mopped up the noodles.

"So… do we dump it?"

"That's my advice."

"I'll do it."

As I cleaned up the half-chewed gob of noodles from the white-and-mint tiles of the kitchen floor, Dolores held the cup by its handle and its nose and trundled out the back door to the trash can. I heard the clattering of the can lid, then a grunt from my little sister, and then the clattering again. I was just shaking the last of the noodles out into the kitchen trash when Dolores appeared in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes landed on the ramen box.

"… Mallory?"

"Hmm?" I stood up.

"Was it tasteless and icky? Did you hate that one bite? Did it taste like rubber?"

"… pretty much. Why?"

Dolores strode over to the counter and picked up the ramen box. She held it over her hand and shook it. Something silvery fell out.

"This might be the problem."

She flicked the thing into my hand, and I gazed at it in disbelief.

It was the package of powdery substance that flavored the ramen.

"… I feel really stupid now."

* * *

"So what do we do now?"

We had returned to the living room, although now it was much brighter thanks to turning on the lamps in the corners. Dolores now sat in the armchair next to the television, while I was flopped on my stomach on the couch.

"I don't know," Dolores said irritably, spearing me with one of her "_nargh I hate you_" stares. "_I_ wasn't the one who forgot to put the flavor in. _I _didn't spit out the ramen. _I _didn't throw away the noodles—"

"Actually, you kinda did," I disagreed, rolling over onto my back and resting my hand on the floor.

"… I stand corrected."

"Well, actually you're sitting—"

"I don't want to hear it, Mallory. I don't. Want. To hear it."

I giggled immaturely and sat up. "So. Chinese?"

"OH, HELL NO." Dolores flung herself off of the chair and tackled my knees before I could get up. "PIZZA. _PIZZA._"

With my stomach grumbling, my head hurting from my stupid, and a vicious half-sister latched onto my knees, there was only one thing I could do.

I flailed wildly.

"OH GOD IT'S A DEMON RISING FROM THE GRAVE GET OFF OF ME VICIOUS BEAST." I flapped my hands ineffectually at Dolores' head, attempting to stand up long enough to escape, but the beastie kept a tight grip on my knees and didn't let up. "HELP! HELP! POLICE! CONSTABLE! WARREN! PIERRE! … WAIT. WHO'S PIERRE? I DON'T KNOW. BUT IF HE'D HELP ME, THAT WOULD BE NICE!"

"OH. GOD. LORY. YOUR FLAILAGE, IT HURTS ME."

"OH. GOD. DOLLY. YOUR ARMS, THEY MAKE ME FLAIL."

"… good point." The blue-eyed preteen unlatched her arms from around my knees and I collapsed on the couch, breathing heavily as if I'd just battled my way through a fight to the death. Which, technically, I had.

"So. Pizza?"

I groaned. "No. Chinese. I _insist_ on it. I will _hurt_ you for it—"

"You already did," Dolores interjected, causing me to frown mutinously.

"You were the one in the way of my flailage. Chinese, I say."

"Pizza."

"Chinese!"

"Pizza!"

"_Chinese!_"

"_Pizza!_"

We glared sourly at one another for a moment, before Dolores sighed defeat. "Rock paper scissors?"

"You're on, shorty."

I dropped down onto my knees on the carpet (giving myself a carpet burn in the process – ouch) and stared fixedly at Dolores. She stared back, waved her hand around in my face. When I didn't move or blink at all, she pouted at me and whacked me on the forehead.

"Zombie staring will get you nowhere, Lory. No. Where."

"I feel abuseeeedddd," I whined, clutching my head where it was about to start lumping – I knew it. She rolled her sky-blue eyes and forced me to look down at her hands.

"Ready, Zombie?"

"Ready, Demon."

"One—"

"—Two—"

"—Three!"

We jerked our hands out at the same moment – mine locked into a fist, hers flattened out into the paper sign. With a grin, the brunette smacked her palm down on the back of my hand.

"Checkmate."

"… You idiot, that's chess."

Too elated to listen to me, my sister sprang up and started dancing around the room to a beat that only she could hear. "Pizza, pizza, pizza, pizza," she chanted, ignoring me as I gazed sullenly at the wall.

Or so I thought.

Without warning, she tackled me back onto the couch and bounced up and down on my knees, shaking my shoulders like a rag doll until my teeth hurt with the clacking and I was shaken sightless. "_I-want-a-cheese-pizza-with-a-stuffed-crust-and-jalapeños-and-also-breadsticks,_" Dolores shrieked at the top of her voice and as fast as she could. "_And-if-they-are-not-here-within-half-an-hour-of-the-order-then-I-am-filing-a-complaint-with-the-management-_ohey do you think Dad will want anything?"

Startled by the sudden transition between shrieking-and-supersonic to calm-and-practical, I sat up and vigorously rubbed my ears in an attempt to stop them from ringing any more. "Um… I don't think so. I think he said he was going to be home late tonight. Like. Around midnight."

"Blah. Hitting the bar again, I guess." Dolores hopped off of my knees and skipped towards the TV, kicking its power button with a toe. It sputtered awake onto the local news, but before I could get the gist of the story, my sister had flicked through the channels and settled on ABC Family.

"… damn. Funniest Home Videos?"

"Yep."

"Why must you do this to me, Dolly?" I griped, sliding off of the couch and making for the phone. "Right when the awesome stuff comes on, you send me off to get things. You're so cruel."

One number dialed, a few stutters, some accidental cusses, and at least two incidents of me dropping the phone and having to apologize profusely later, we had an order of two stuffed-crust pizzas with jalapeños going on for the Pizza Hut near our house. I skipped back into the living room and draped myself over the back of the chair near the door. Dolores sat cross-legged on the chair near the TV. We watched the TV for a while like this, me occasionally wiggling forward after a spastic laughing fit to avoid falling backwards onto my butt.

It got close a couple times. Some people are just really stupid on-camera.

After about twenty minutes of this nonsense, I stretched, about to say something – and managed to fall headfirst into the seat of the chair. I did an involuntary somersault and fell flat on the carpet. Dolores glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

"What are you doing?"

"Falling," I said (weakly), and grinned (likewise). I got unsteadily to my feet, shook my head until I could see straight, and tripped lightly out of the room, up the stairs, and to my closet. I ransacked around the drawers for a moment, finally yanked on a long-sleeve grey shirt with holes in the sleeves for my thumbs, an elbow-sleeved black shirt with the slogan "Newton's Number One Law: you hit me, I hit back," and a pair of stone-washed jeans. Thus attired, I threw my ratty pajama-things into the washer.

I took a glance in the mirror as I went out and winced at the beastly fluffiness of my hair, which had managed to become so beastly as to make me look like a troll. I patted it ineffectively for a moment, then gave up and skidded off downstairs.

"I'm off, Dolores," I called through the living room door, snagging the keys from their hook by the back door. I got a grunted reply – the kid was too absorbed in America's Funniest Home Videos to really pay attention.

After an exaggerated grunt back at her, I shoved my keys into the pocket of my jeans, carefully unhooked a small black umbrella from the stand underneath the key hook, and jogged through the hall and out the door.

* * *

The rain was coming down harder now, and I swung my umbrella up and clicked it open. It unfolded in a wild _whoosh,_ startling me slightly, then I shook my head at my stupidness and settled it on my shoulder. As soon as I stepped off the porch, water pounded on the makeshift roof above my head. The black fabric threatened to buckle in on me, but I shook it vigorously until it stiffened once more and became something vaguely recognizable as an umbrella again.

In this way prepared, I set off down the street at an ambling pace, content to be alone with myself, my thoughts, and the umbrella. Oh, and the umbrella's thoughts, if it had any.

My mind wandered back to the Norse gods, and I shivered. If Ofnir was real – if Warren and his sword were real – if I wasn't dreaming, then they existed. If Warren wasn't lying, then I was the daughter of one of the Norse goddesses – or gods, I reminded myself; my father could very well have adopted me.

Unlikely, seeing as there was a photo of me with my father and my erstwhile mother in the kitchen; but there was nothing you couldn't do with Photoshop these days…

_BEEEEEEP._

A strident honk knocked me out of my thoughts. I had stepped into the street – one quick glance at the light made me curse. I'd walked into the middle of the street during a red light. I waved apologetically at the driver of the car that had honked at me and fled across the street, umbrella bouncing around on my shoulder.

_That was close!_

"Be careful, kid."

I whirled around.

A man was staring at me with his one visible eye.

He stood almost eerily tall, hands shoved deep into his brown overcoat. As he shifted his weight from foot to foot, I saw he wore scuffed brown boots. His hair tumbled down over his collar, while his beard fell a little ways past that; both were a silvery-peppery-grey of a shade I'd only seen on aging wolves. One of his eyes was a bright, amused blue; the other was obscured by a beat-up looking hat pulled at a rakish angle over his face. As I stared, he continued speaking in a hoarse, gruff voice.

"Dangerous night to be out," he said casually. One gloved hand swung up and adjusted the edge of his hat. "Never know what's going to be out in the rain."

"Uh—no, I don't," I choked out, instinctively reaching for the umbrella so I could close it and start using it as a spear if I had to. "But I like surprises. They're fun. Variety being the spice of life and all that." I finished this off with a high-pitched giggle, which may not have made me seem that sane.

Then again, being insane was probably the best way to get rid of someone.

The grey-haired stranger nodded in agreement. "Very true," he said slowly, his one eye turning to look at something across the street. "Well – stay safe on these streets tonight, kid. I'd hate to turn on the television in the morning and see your face splashed across the news. _'Murder victim found after a violent storm.'_"

I think he must have seen either my terrified expression or my twitching fingers on the umbrella, because he turned abruptly and said tersely, "Well, goodbye then. And don't get yourself killed."

The stranger set off across the street at a brisk pace. My fingers relaxed on the handle of the umbrella, and I turned back on my path. This time, however, I moved faster with my head up, making sure I didn't run into anyone else weird.

The street that Pizza Hut sat on was a few streets away, and one of the only ways to get there was through an alley that I'd passed through many times. Trees looped over it in delicate patterns of branches of leaves that shone with a yellow-green, enchanting light during the summer, and kept the rain off of my face when I walked down it. It was little-frequented, and the only corridor leading off of it trailed away into a little residential courtyard – where, until recently, my friend Alyssa had resided.

Stupid parents.

I set off down the alleyway, humming Enya's _Adiemus_ under my breath. The rain pattered down upon the leaves above my head. Realizing I didn't need the umbrella any more, I lowered it and snapped it closed, stowing it into my pocket with the keys.

Not for the first time, I wondered what the old man meant when he said that there was something dangerous out there. Was he warning me against stalkers? Car accidents? Or – my heart fluttered in my chest as I considered – _monsters? _

Could he know?

I was half tempted to turn around and run back to where I last saw him to track him down, but that temptation was squashed out of me by what happened next.

Behind me, behind a trash can that I had thought previously to be abandoned, I heard a noise eerily similar to that of an angry snake. I reeled about, eyes darting wildly, looking for the source of the sound.

Nothing.

I let out a shaky breath. _Easy, Lory, old girl,_ I chided myself. _You're getting paranoid after the incident with Ofnir last Friday. Nothing's looking for you. That was a one-time thing. It was just a fluke. He wasn't really looking for you. It's okay. Just a fluke._

But no.

A serpentine, scaly gray shape slipped out from behind the trash can. I couldn't see it at first in the twilight gloom, enhanced by the tree branches above my head, but as it drew nearer, I sucked in a terrified breath.

I knew just by looking at it who this being was, and why it – she – was after me.

"Svafnir," I whispered.

Svafnir was tall, taller than me; clad in a pair of shredded leather shorts and a worn leather jacket, her skin was a mass of fine scales that looked like that of a shark. I had a feeling if I touched it, it would feel like sandpaper. Her fingers were long, ending in horrible-looking talons like that of an eagle – her bare toes ended in the same claws. However, she balanced on three of her four toes; the biggest toe on each foot ended in a colossal, razor-sharp talon like that of a prehistoric raptor. As she moved forward, I could see a long, serpentine tail flicking out behind her.

But her face –

Svafnir did not have a human face.

Her head was set on top of an grotesquely long neck, elongated like a lizard's. Spines protruded out from behind her serpentine jawbone and from the back of her head; six-inch fangs extended over her bottom lip. Her eyes were long, red, reptilian slits – there were three of them. One was set on either side of her head, and another one extended down her nose.

And they never blinked.

As I stood, frozen in horror, the monster that had tracked me down cocked her head to the side, eying me out of her right eye. For a moment, we stood like that, me unable to move and she examining me. Then she opened her mouth – I caught a momentary glimpse of a forked black tongue, flicking the air to sense me – and spoke.

"Mallory Moore."

Her voice was like sandpaper grating across concrete. I snapped out of my haze and fumbled for something in my pockets to possibly fight against this vengeful demon. She watched me rifle, her eyes reflecting something like cold amusement.

"Hoping for something to save you, mortal?" she hissed lightly. "Wishing your guardian demigod was here? Wondering how it'll feel, dying?"

My heart was beating so quickly I thought I might possibly keel over and faint. I was close to hyperventilation, so my breathiness might be excused when I finally squeaked out, "Svafnir, I didn't kill your brother, that was War, I didn't ask him to—"

"Shut the Hel up," Svafnir said pleasantly, and I dropped to my knees, shuddering in terror. Because, really, Svafnir's pleasant voice wasn't very pleasant at all.

Ofnir wasn't like this. Ofnir didn't exchange banter with me before he finally killed me. Ofnir wasn't smart enough to track me down in an alley, he just found me by chance in the street. Ofnir didn't make threats in a light tone of voice.

Also, Ofnir didn't catch me at night when there was absolutely no chance of anyone coming to save me.

* * *

I was sitting like that, staring sightlessly at the sidewalk with my arms wrapped around my shoulders, like they'd afford any protection, when I heard the click of her talons against the concrete.

I had barely enough time to register that her feet came into my view when her hand – four fingers, I noted in a faraway corner of my mind – swung into vision, lightning-fast. The monster backhanded me across the face, sending me careening backwards. My back slammed into the wall of the alley, knocking my breath out. Stars danced in front of my eyes.

I sank back to the ground, sucking air greedily through my windpipe. The blow had momentarily stunned me, and the most I could do was tremble uncontrollably as Svafnir clicked closer to me, an expression on her face (do reptiles have expressions?) as if nothing had happened.

"How are you feeling?" she said conversationally, leaning over me and looking at me through three eyes filled with mock concern. Her tail, easily ten feet from the base of her spine to the pointed tip, swung around and cupped me under the chin, forcing me to look up at her. I whimpered slightly, unable to do anything but.

"Afraid?" she murmured false-sympathetically, leaning down to massage my scalp with her razor-sharp nails – I cried out halfheartedly when I felt slices open up on my head. "Terrified? Struck mute? Funny. I seem to have that effect on a lot of people."

And then there was another strike, this time one that sent me crashing to the other side of the alley. She was there in a blink, latching clawed fingers around my arms and pinning me to the wall.

"You know, maybe my brother felt this way right before your pet demigod killed him," she said, in a tone like she'd just thought of this. "Ever tried putting yourself in his shoes?"

"Ofnir – didn't – wear – shoes," I choked out. "He was – an – animal –"

Without warning I was thrown, as easily as a straw dummy, across the alley once more. I slammed into the wall on my left side, felt something crack in my shoulder; then I slid down, lubricated by a sudden spurt of blood.

I crumpled, facedown, into a heap at the base of the brick wall, bleeding from almost everywhere on my left side and four identical wounds on my arms from Svafnir's claws. The muscles in my right arm spasmed for a moment, then I lay totally still.

I heard the now-familiar clicking of Svafnir's toes on the concrete. Then her claws pierced my undamaged, right shoulder and dragged me upward. It felt like my whole body was one big bleeding gash; I couldn't even feel Svafnir's claws against all the other agonies.

"He was my brother!" she roared, slamming me back against the wall until we were practically nose-to-nose. "Stupid as he was, beast that he was, Ofnir was my brother! And you had to kill him. You had to kill him because of what he was!"

"He tried to… eat me…"

"_Because he was an animal!_"

She flung me down onto the ground and crouched down over me, tail flicking spastically, three eyes boiling with rage. "Your pet demigod killed my brother, Mallory Moore," she hissed. "So now, I'll have to kill you."

She curved her serpentine neck downwards until I could feel her breath on my throat; gently, Svafnir opened her mouth, placing her fangs on my skin–

"Oi! Bitch!"

The words came out of nowhere.

Svafnir's head jerked up, eyes narrowing and flapping, frill-like ears flicking forward to sense where the words had come from. The alien red eyes widened at something I couldn't see, and then the monster reared back upwards and stepped back, away from me.

I hardly dared to breathe, but I inched my head to the side and saw the most amazing sight that it is possible to see when you're seconds away from getting your throat torn out by a psychotic dragon-child.

A figure, female in shape and in voice, stood at the entrance to the alley. Fog swirled in after her, gathering about her ankles and legs, twining up to her torso. Behind her helmet, which extended down across her nose and cheeks, dark red curly hair tumbled past her shoulders. Though all that was visible through her helmet was her eyes, they were shadowed and I could only see the glint of the evening light off of them. She was clad in leather armor, a bronze-colored scimitar held in one hand – through my injured haze, I could see three runes that I'd already studied: _Kaen, _wildfire; _Hagall,_ the Destroyer; and a reversed _Logr,_ water.

A fire rune, a destroyer rune, and a reversed water rune (which invariably meant fire). This could be bad.

She stepped forward lightly, her tennis-shoe-clad feet making soft pattering noises on the concrete. "Svafnir," she said brightly – this time around I noticed she had a slight English accent. "_So_ glad to see you again, dear. I expect you've healed from the last time we met?"

The only reply she got was a violent snarling from Svafnir's end, and I got a smack in the cheek from the dragoness' tail. I choked, rolling over from the force of the blow.

The mysterious warrior inclined her head to look at me, then tilted her face back up at Svafnir. Her voice was condescending when she spoke. "_Another_ one, Svaffie? Can I call you Svaffie? Of course I can. But, really, Svaffie, you need to stop killing every demigod that gets on your nerves. It tends to make the guys up there angry, you know."

Discreetly, she flicked her thumb – the one of the hand not holding the scimitar – up towards the sky. "No doubt Nidhogg's pleased as a gerbil who's gnawed his way through a cage bar. And your mum, likely. Giantesses are like that. But Odin's pissed as Hel. … And Hel's probably pissed too, but then again she's always like that."

"She's mine to kill," Svafnir spat, sinking to her heels next to me. "Her companion killed my brother. I get to kill his companion."

I thought I saw a vicious red glint behind the warrior's helmet, but all she said was a terse "Bullshit."

_Oh great,_ I thought bitterly, _they're going to get into a cursing match while I bleed to death. It's really things like these that make me keep my faith in humanity._

* * *

What happened was, of course, nothing like that.

What happened was that Svafnir lunged forward across me. I felt the whoosh of her claws clearing my hip – then she dropped to her feet with a loud _crunch_ of claws on concrete. The warrior looked at her for a moment, impassive, then extended her scimitar and beckoned with her other hand.

"Bring it on, half-breed," she said coldly. "I've just been aching for a fight."

With a roar of rage, the dragoness swiped at the warrior with her clawed right hand. It was parried—she swept up with her tail—it was fended off with some nifty swordplay—another snarl filled with wrath, and she lunged forward, slashing with both claws towards the warrior's face.

The warrior got her claws neatly tangled together and flipped her over, sending Svafnir careening to the ground which she had so recently thrown me to. It was a bit pathetic, honestly, to see the great and mighty monster felled by a mortal—

Oh, but she wasn't felled yet.

With no sound other than exerted panting, she kicked herself up onto her palms, kicking out violently with her raptor-like feet. The hunting talon of one scored a deep gash across the warrior's unprotected arm; the other talon was severed when the warrior slashed out at her and sliced it off at the toe.

The dragoness let out a howl of agony and fury, spinning onto her feet. Her right foot was bleeding green blood, the very concrete staining emerald, and she limped backwards as the warrior advanced.

"How does it feel to be helpless?" the redheaded warrior asked softly. "How does it feel to be the victim, Svafnir? Hmm?"

She swung up the scimitar, pressing the razor-sharp edge to the dragoness' throat. "I could kill you, you know."

For a second, I thought she would.

But no.

"Run," she spat, jabbing the edge of her sword into the hollow of Svafnir's neck. A trickle of jade slid down her sword blade. "Run as fast as you can, daughter of Nidhogg, and if I catch you trying to kill a demigod again you will pay for your life. You know the rules. Three times the charm."

Svafnir nodded frantically, glancing wildly around the alley as if looking for something to save her. Then, with a snarl, she flicked the sword blade out of the way. "This isn't over, Sierra Voss," the gray-skinned humanoid sneered, and then with a gazelle-quick stride (despite her limp), she sprinted from the scene.

Okay, so maybe a rescuer with two fire runes and a chaos rune could be good, too.

The warrior – no, Sierra Voss – finally I had a name for the girl – turned to me, peering concernedly through her helmet eyeholes at my injuries. She sheathed her scimitar, kneeled down by my head, and tipped her helmet off.

Her eyes were of a narrow, almost Oriental quality, though their color was anything but Asian. They glinted a vivid, almost neon green, though they tinted into a purple-blue near the edges. Gently, she reached down and rolled me over onto my back, propping me up into a sitting position.

"Are you okay?" she said in a low, urgent voice. As she asked, she was probing my back and ribs with her fingers, checking for breaks. Her fingers danced over my left shoulder, and a sharp pain shot through it – it was broken, maybe, or perhaps I was lucky and it was just a bad bruise.

Or not.

"Your shoulder's dislocated," Sierra said anxiously, taking a firm grip on my collarbone and my upper left arm. I cried out – it was painful, dammit!

All of me was pain. I was bruised and scraped and broken in places that I never thought would even be minorly banged up. My face hurt, my jaw felt like someone had been playing soccer with my head, and I was bleeding so badly I could see that it was staining the concrete.

And now this random girl had come along and decided to play doctor with my dislocated shoulder.

Suddenly, I really just wanted to go home. I wanted to go home and go to bed and sleep and not wake up ever, ever, ever. Just go to sleep and never wake up.

A sharp jab of pain brought me back to reality. Sierra was manipulating my dislocated shoulder, causing me an indescribable amount of agony. I wailed like a child, unable to control my cries of pain. There were a couple of twists – once she shoved my arm upwards and my shoulder down – then she shoved sharply and I felt a slight _pop._

Instant gratification. I sighed in shuddering relief. "Thank you," I whispered shakily. "God, I don't know what would have happened without you there—"

"I get that a lot," she said wryly, and stood to help me up. "I'm—"

"Sierra Voss," I murmured, grabbing hold of her outstretched hand and pulling myself up – though she had to help a lot. "I'm Mallory Moore. Thanks for that, back there… will she really leave us alone, now, or is she just waiting?"

"She'll leave us alone. Nice to meet you, Mallory."

"That can be debated."

Without warning, I stumbled, almost falling back to my knees as I walked. Sierra ducked forward and caught me around the waist, saving me from a potential bloody nose. (That would be a lovely addition to the rest of my wounds.)

"Careful, kid," she said warningly, looping her arm around under my arms to keep me upright. "We have to get you home. I'm Sierra Voss, by the way, I think you know that. Daughter of Loki."

"Loki?"

Loki.

The trickster god.

The redheaded god of fire.

It all made sense now – the fire runes, the chaos rune. The runes marked out the parents of the demigods. My mind went into hyperdrive, seeking out the runes on War's sword – Protection, Defense, Warrior. _All war runes._

Tyrsson. His last name was Tyrsson.

His nickname was War.

Tyr was the Norse god of war.

Warren was a son of Tyr.

I felt momentarily dizzy and stumbled against Sierra's side. "No way," I said absently, eyes glazed with pain and shock. "No fucking way. This can't be happening to me, this isn't real. You're not real. War's not real. This is all a huge dream…"

Sierra glanced at me sidelong and patted me on my bruised jaw, sending a bolt of agony through my face. "Is that a dream, Mallory? Was your being beaten up by a dragoness a dream? C'mere. Touch Rat. Promise she won't bite." She brandished her scimitar – Rat, I guessed – at me, but I shook my head.

"Um, I'll pass," I whispered. "But right now, I really need to get home."

She scooped me up into her arms in an astonishingly easy motion, though I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. Sierra was a remarkably strong girl, a little taller then I was, and I was shaped almost exactly like a chopstick. I crumpled in her hold.

"Sierra?" I asked wearily. "What do I tell my sister when she asks why I look like I've just been beaten up by a hobo?"

"Don't say anything, Mallory. Brush past her, go upstairs, and lock yourself into whatever room you can that has a phone. I'll have to tell War about this, you're not ready to take care of yourself yet—_what_ he was thinking, I don't know—Odin knows you don't have a weapon for yourself—War knows—Svafnir and Ofnir—appearing to you like that…"

Her words settled off into a steady buzz, and I wondered vaguely if she'd turned into a bee… and then many-legged dragons were circling in the sky, shooting gems shaped like runes at us that exploded on contact…

…But War was fending them off with his own runes… and then my mother appeared, and reached out her hand, and said, "Mallory, my unfortunate one, come with me. This is not where you belong. You belong with me, where you will be like everyone else, and nobody will dare to turn you away."

… And I reached out my hand and she took me from Sierra, who had somehow turned into a yellow-and-black striped dragoness, and flew away cackling into the sun… but it had been raining just a moment earlier…

And now the rain became Svafnir's emerald-jade-bottle-green blood… and runes painted a monochrome rainbow across the sky…

And then I was at my front door, and Dolores was talking in a very high-pitched voice. "Mallory? _Mallory?!_ Who are you where did you find her, is she all right did you do this to her why are you carrying a _sword_—"

Sierra's voice, taut and terse. "I'm Sierra Voss. I found her in an alley by Pizza Hut. I don't know what happened to her. I'm thinking maybe she got beat up by a homeless person – but she's been hit across the head a couple times, so she might not know anything. She had a dislocated shoulder when I found her – I popped it back in – she told me her address and then passed out."

I stirred and groaned, and sensed two pairs of eyes on me. "Mallory!" my sister shrieked, panicked, and fluttered anxiously to my side – though I couldn't see her, I sensed her hovering a few inches to my right. Where was I…?

I remembered Svafnir, the pain… Sierra defeating her… buzzing… monochrome rainbow runes, shining fireballs of golden, my mother's hands, reaching, reaching…

"Mallory, I'm going to go now," Sierra said gently. I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Remember what I told you, okay?"

"Mmkays," I slurred, wondering if it was worth opening my eyes. I hurt all over. It felt like I'd been smashed against alley walls for a good fifteen minutes straight.

Oh. Maybe that was because I _had_ been smashed against alley walls for a good fifteen minutes straight.

Go figure.

I heard the clunk of the front door closing, and pried my eyes open with some effort. I was lying on the couch in the living room; it was seven after nine according to the clock on the wall. I heard Dolores pattering nervously around in the kitchen, but at the moment I couldn't think about it.

I just had to get to a phone.

I stumbled to my feet, wandered blindly out of the living room, and up the stairs. _My room, _I wanted to go there, just to sleep and forget and never think again – but I had to get to a phone.

I staggered into my dad's room and locked the door. Then, with my last amount of energy, I toppled forward and onto his bed, hand landing directly on the phone.

And then I waited, just waited, for a call that I really hoped would never come.

Because I knew, somewhere in my mind, that if that call came, and I answered it, events would be set in motion that would not end prettily.

* * *

**Brief A/N:**

_of svafnir_

Svafnir is the humanoid sister of Ofnir, mentioned (and killed) earlier in Come Hel or High Water. She is only Ofnir's half-sister; her father is Nidhogg, the dragon that gnaws at the root of the World Tree, and an unnamed giantess. Svafnir, Ofnir, and any other siblings mentioned in Come Hel or High Water are not canon in Norse mythology, only their parents (or in Svafnir's case, one of her parents) are.

As we are currently on Chapter Four, there are only four more chapters, including the epilogue. I am still debating on whether to write a sequel to Come Hel or High Water, so please vote on my profile.

Thank you for your time, and please review.

-Thai


	6. Of Warren, Pain, and Whiteheeled Sandals

**Chapter Five**

**Of Warren, Pain, and White Heeled Sandals**

* * *

I didn't have to wait long.

I'd lay in a pain-addled daze, trying to sort out the events of the night even though my brain felt like a rusted hinge, for barely ten minutes before the phone rang. The screech of the ringer jarred me onto my knees, and I yanked the receiver off of the holder.

"He… hello?" I breathed into the phone. Unconsciously, I clutched my until-recently dislocated shoulder, hardly daring to breathe in case it was Svafnir, or worse, one of her siblings – looking, _again,_ to take revenge on me for something I hadn't done.

"Mallory?"

It was Warren. I let out a gasping sob of relief and dropped back to the mattress into a fetal position. My knees were tucked up under my chin, making it hard to talk.

"Warren! Oh my God, I'm so sorry for not believing you, I should have let you tell me about it, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—"

"Mallory." His voice was hard, like stone, and my knuckles went white on the phone receiver. "Are you okay? Sierra just called, she was almost hysterical because she sensed Grafvitnir and Goin moving in—"

"There are _more?!_" I shrieked, jerking myself up. "There are _more _of those bastards after me!?! _How many are there!?_"

Stunned silence from Warren's end of the line. Then a terse, "We don't know. There could be hundreds."

Before I could freak out at that little bit of info, War spat curtly, "Mallory, pack a bag. You're not safe here any more – Odin only knows how you survived your first fifteen years – and this recent Svafnir business just heightens the risk for you. You've made a couple of damn good enemies this night, Lory. I'll be over in fifteen minutes."

I heard an electronic click, and then silence. Mechanically, I unpeeled my fingers from the receiver, and it fell to the mattress, where it soon began to beep in a notice that it was off the hook. I sat up, screwing my face up at the pain that shot through various parts of my body.

"Great," I grumbled, "and it's not even Christmas yet."

Stiffly, with a shuffling zombie-like pace, I swung off of the bed and out the door. Dolly stood nervously outside the door, fingers meshed nervously. "Lory, Lory, Lory, Lory," she babbled rapidly as soon as she saw me, "what happened oh God Lory are you alright what happened do I need to call Dad what's going on who was the girl who brought you home what did she say—"

"Don't call Dad," I croaked, "but bring me my emergency case."

At her astonished, unmoving look, I sighed. A note of hysteria crept into my voice as I told her, "Dolores, go get the emergency case from the closet downstairs. I need it. Right now."

She didn't move. I blew.

"Look, Dolores!" I shrieked. Intense fear and rage rippled across my mind, melding until I couldn't decide whether I was scared or furious. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. "I don't have time! None of us have any time! You're just standing there when things – horrible things that you have no idea about – are coming! Coming for _me! _Don't you understand!? We're all in danger and I _have to get out!_"

She fell backwards at the force of my wrath, landing hard on her elbows. "Lory," she whispered, staring at me with wide blue eyes, "why are you so angry? You're not acting like my sister, Lory… you're really not."

"That's because I'm not your sister," I spat. "You're just the child of a bitch who wormed her way into my dad's life. You're not even a real daughter. You're just the cuckoo spawn of a parasite!"

Having my life in danger – almost being killed by a monster from the myths – being within inches of death – had hardened me. So as my half-sister, who I'd raised from birth as practically my own daughter, stared at me sightlessly and clutched at her neck as if she wanted to strangle herself, I shoved my way past her and sprinted down the stairs, wounds screaming all the way.

The year before, when we had (believe it or not) been in danger of some serious flooding, my dad and Roxanne's daughter – I refused to call her by her name – had assembled a set of emergency suitcases. They were filled with various nonperishable food and changes of clothes for all of us. I'd scoffed at this, saying that if we were going to flood, we wouldn't have enough time to flee. But now they came in pretty handy, I reflected, yanking open the closet door and reaching for the black suitcase that had my name – Mallory Katherine Moore – written neatly across the top in ornate, sparkly purple gel script.

As I dragged the case towards the door, I heard a noise coming from the staircase. I turned. Roxanne's daughter – Dolores – Dolly was standing at the base of the stairs, staring at me with hard, hate-filled blue eyes. Tears still glittered on her cheeks.

"Yeah, that's right, get out," she snarled. "You call me the parasite? _Me_? Look who's talking, freak. You ruin _everything you touch._ Remember the roses from school? Remember how you touched them and said they looked pretty? Remember how they _died?_"

I gasped. A sudden claw of pain stabbed at my heart, remembering the rose incident. And every other.

_No. No, no, no, I'm not the freak here, I'm not the parasite—_

"Do you remember Joe, Mallory?" Dolores was descending the stairs, looking like some sort of avenging angel in a white long-sleeved shirt and an ornately tattered black skirt as she moved. "Do you remember _him?_ And do you remember Tsukiko, and James? Remember them?"

_Joe was the crow from my fourth-grade class. And Tsukiko was the parrot. And James was the lovebird. And out of all of them, when I took them home over spring break, only one of them survived the week, and that was—_

"Remember how Joe was the only one that survived in your room?" The parasite-angel-daughter grinned nastily. "Remember how you used to play with Tsukiko and James and Joe, and how after that one time you let them out they all landed on your shoulders and then the next morning two of them were dead and the crow wasn't? And you call _me_ the parasite?"

Memories battered me now. I could remember that one time in third grade, when I asked Yvette Silver to my birthday party – _A wrinkled nose. Perfect grey eyes blinked in dismay. Then, "Sorry, I don't go to zombie birthday parties."_

"Remember when you visited the zoo that time? Remember how you got _lost_? Do you remember, Mallory? Seventh grade? Do you remember how you wandered into the wolf habitat and all the people around the enclosure thought you were dead meat?"

_Terror. Overwhelming fear for my life. Then warm fur against my hands, a cool snout snuffling against my hip, a pair of bright golden eyes staring me in the face. They felt so soft under my hands, so lean and lithe and beautiful._

"And how they _took you in?_ They practically ate the guy who tried to get you out, do you remember? He had to go to the hospital. He _died, _Mallory. Died from an infection thanks to your guardian wolves. Do you _remember?_"

She was standing before me now, ice-cold eyes staring me in the face. "You were responsible for those deaths, Mallory Moore. _You_ killed those roses. _You_ killed those birds. _Your_ wolves killed that man. And you _call me a parasite?!_"

I was hunched over, hands over my head, trying to block out her words. "It was just coincidence," I choked out. "Not my fault those roses weren't watered, not my fault those birds were elderly—"

"How dare you have the audacity to call me a parasite when you, Mallory, don't even have a claim to being loved in this family. Because it doesn't matter, Mal. You may be older, you may be taller, you may be smarter – but Dad loves me more, because he was in love with _my _mother. Mine."

"No," I whispered. "I wasn't, Dolores. Your mother was a stupid bitch of a stripper that my dad picked up one night when he was bored, and you're a mistake. Don't delude yourself into thinking that Daddy loves you more. Don't think that. Whenever he looks at you he remembers Roxanne, and whenever he looks at me he remembers Mom. Don't think that he loved Roxanne. Because no matter how long she's been missing, no matter how long she's been gone, he still loves my mother. He. Still. Loves. _Her._"

Dolores dropped to her knees as if my words had struck her. As she stared blankly down at the carpet under her, I wrenched open the door, wiped my tears away, and glared straight at her.

"And he hates you for reminding him of his mistakes. And so do I."

With that last chilling pronouncement, I swept out of the house.

And I knew that I would never come back.

* * *

I walked out to the curb, feeling the stickiness on my cheeks and the cracking of my congealing scabs, and sat down to wait. Like with the phone, I didn't have to wait long. Barely two minutes later, a sleek red Mustang convertible with whitewall tires screeched to a halt in front of me. A harried-looking War leaned out of the driver's side and jerked his thumb at the backseat. "Stash your stuff and get in," he said tersely. I obeyed.

Somehow, sitting in the passenger seat of that car with him after being attacked by something I never would have dreamed of and having the worst fight with my sister that we'd ever had, I felt more alone than ever. And when he leaned over and touched my uninjured shoulder, and asked tentatively, "How are you?" well, that just totally broke my resolve altogether.

I burst into tears. Without even bothering to buckle my seatbelt, I curled my knees up to my chest and buried my face in them, racked with shuddering sobs that seemed to go on forever. Silently, War stroked my hair momentarily and turned back to the wheel. Through blurred vision, I saw him shift the car into drive, and the rumble of the engine vibrated my bones. The Mustang shifted into motion down the street.

Gradually, my helpless shaking settled down to a heavy, stiff stillness. I stared sightlessly at the windshield, wondering if all that had really happened – if I'd really told my half-sister that I hated her, if I'd really done all that with the roses and the birds and the wolves years before – and then War's voice came to me as if he were talking through a sheet of glass.

"Are you sure you're okay, Lory?" he was saying, and I turned to him. His eyes, red-purple as always, were glittering concernedly at me, and I forced myself to grin.

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "After all, who wouldn't be fine after they'd just been attacked by a bitch from mythology who wanted nothing more to rip out their guts? Who wouldn't be fine after they'd had the mother of all fights with their half-sister? Who wouldn't be fine after all that?"

He gazed at me reproachfully, then his eyes flicked back to the road. "Care to talk about it?"

I opened my mouth to say something along the lines of "no, not going to happen, about as likely as a snowball's chance in hell," but instead I found myself babbling, "Well, it all started back in third grade with this girl called Yvette Silver…"

"Yvette? Interesting. I know a Yvette. Daughter of Bragi, really nice kid…"

"We're probably not talking about the same person, then…"

I poured out all the horrible and weird things that happened to me, including the wolf incident in seventh grade, and with every anecdote his knuckles grew whiter on the steering wheel. When I finally got around to my fight with Dolores, I was astonished that he could still feel his fingers.

"So what you're telling me is," he ground out, swerving abruptly to avoid a cat that had skedaddled onto the road, "that you've been having these… these _incidents_ for a while now? The roses, the birds – that happened in fourth grade? And you say the wolves were in seventh?"

I nodded fervently. Abruptly remembering that I'd forgotten to buckle my seatbelt, I reached over and clicked the fastener into place. Warren glanced at me, not looking happy in the least.

"Where are we going?" I whispered.

"You remember how I told you that we've set up a shelter kind of place in Wisconsin?"

"… yeah…"

"We've got defenses there to protect you from the Brood—our little nickname for Nidhogg or various other monster's children—until you can learn to defend yourself. It's my home."

"So we're going to Wisconsin?" I said skeptically. "In _this_ car?"

He looked at me and laughed, accelerating back into drive as the light blinked green. "What do you have against Trippy?" he asked, patting the top of the car's windshield. "This baby has gotten me from the shelter to NY to here and back. I've had her for only a couple of months and she's never failed me yet."

"So… do you even know where this shelter is?"

"I have a general idea."

I glanced over at him. His face had softened and seemed to glow after being exposed to a conversation about his home. Carefully, I unpeeled my arms from around my knees and yanked the seat belt back over my shoulder.

"What's it called?"

"It's called Camp Gamle-Sti, although it's really more of a permanent home than a camp – not much of a home, though." He snorted, slowing to a halt as a red light blinked on in front of us. "It's comprised of a rune-woven border, courtesy of our friends in the celestial atmosphere, and a couple of settlements. The settlements are really just clusters of tents. The council is working on plans for more permanent buildings, though…"

"Settlements?"

His face lit up. "Yeah." We watched the cars in front of us glide by. "It's not required, but a lot of the demigods and demigoddesses there feel better around their siblings. There are some gods and goddesses without known children, though—Skadi, for one, Odin, Hel, and Frigg. Oh and Síf, but she's notoriously faithful to Thor." He slid the car forward as the light flicked green.

I rested my chin on my palm and stared at the city going away around us. Something occurred to me. "Why are we going across states in a _convertible?_"

"Because I'm too screwed for cash to get another car," he said with a straight face. I stared at him for a moment.

Then I started giggling. Within four seconds my giggles had escalated to full-on cackling until I was gasping for breath. During my entire hysterical fit, Warren had remained with his eyes on the road. I calmed myself and gasped for a while until I could breathe again.

"That… was truly epic, Warren," I finally said, grinning. A brush of cold air hissed over my bare arms and I shivered. "Can we yank up the cover?"

"Sure."

War pulled over into the parking lot of a gas station and motioned for me to get out of the car. Stiffly, trying not to crack my horrible scabs, I pushed the car door open and swung out. War, being a show-off face, had vaulted over his door and was leaning on the trunk and tapping his foot dramatically when I hobbled over.

"Hey, be patient, I'm a cripple," I groused. Together, we leaned over the trunk and pried the convertible hood up over the car. We were just securing it to the windshield when it hit.

A stab of agony slashed through my injured side, and I let out a sound that was a mixture of a scream and a gasp. My knees buckled beneath me, and I crumpled to a heap on the ground, still gasp-screaming.

Through the daze of red pain, I could hear Warren yelling "Mallory!? _Mallory?!!_" Why couldn't he just be quiet? Enjoy the pain while it lasts, 'cos it meant he didn't have to do anything…

Vaguely, I felt someone scooping me up and setting me down on something. The warmth of my shirt was peeled away from my abdomen, exposing the pale skin of my stomach, a doodled note (why would I doodle a note on my stomach? I have no idea), and my wounds.

"_Shit!_"

_Language,_ I wanted to slur at him, but my tongue was so heavy and I hurt too much to think, hurt too much to speak. Something pushed me over and I rolled onto my relatively uninjured right side, ribs screeching in distress. I felt leather under my cheek. I was in the backseat of the Mustang.

Something wet dabbed at the gashes on my sides, and I hissed. War's gruff voice came to me as if through a daze. "Come on, we're getting you to Giselle."

_Giselle?_

I rolled onto my back once more, grasping blindly at the air until I found his shoulder. "Warren," I gasped, "what the hell?"

"Hel," he corrected, preoccupied. "What the Hel."

He patted me lightly on the shoulder and dropped something heavy and warm on me – a blanket, I decided – then I heard the distinctive noise of him swinging into the front seat and the engine started up. I relaxed under my blanket. The pain was already ebbing away.

When I said so, though, Warren replied in his usual elegant manner.

"There's no need to curse, Tyrsson," I muttered glumly.

* * *

I think I fell asleep.

Because the next thing I knew, I was lying in the back of the convertible and we were outside a house that I had never seen.

Warren turned the car off, and turned around, staring at me with concern in his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Maybe," I whispered. "I don't want to move and find out."

He got out of the car and, very gently, scooped me up into his arms. Again.

I was getting kinda tired of it, frankly, but hey. What can you do? War was a man on a mission, and besides, he was the son of a stubborn war god anyway. _Wait… why had I felt so triumphant when I found out whose son he was?_ Feeling vaguely idiotic, I remembered that he had _told_ me the first time he saw me.

… Stupid war-son.

Of course, it was a bit nice not to have to walk around with a side that possibly would end up having me fall over shrieking like an insane raven. Not that I wasn't insane already. Not that ravens weren't all insane.

… Was I high? I was babbling like one. In my mind. Which made no sense. Maybe I was high. Or maybe I was all endorphin-thick with the fact that my side only twinged slightly and didn't go absolutely bonkers when I got picked up.

Before I could tangle out my thoughts, War had gone up to the front door. He rang the doorbell, balancing me in one arm and a half—I think he rang the bell with his elbow—and I abruptly wondered what time it was. Eleven or so, I figured, and was surprised when I heard a female voice call, "Just a second!"

"It's Warren," War called pleasantly through the door. A pause, and then a joyous chortle.

"Ah, War, it's been too long," the female voice replied. "Come in, the door's unlocked."

Warren hip-bumped it open and carried me into a long, wide foyer tiled with pale-green stone. A vase of white and yellow roses sat on a wooden table besides the door, as did a fat calico cat. (Not on the table, obviously. It would have broken under his weight.)

The cat opened one lime-green eye at us, meowed lazily, then returned to his nap. I felt War's balance shift as he nudged the door shut with his foot, and then we—or rather, he—walked down the hall to the door at the end.

Painted pale green like the stone of the foyer, the door had a golden apple carved onto its surface. Loopy script decorated the paint below it, clearly spelling out "Giselle."

Weird.

"Wait just a mo, War," came the musical voice from the door. "Maggie's being an annoying little squirt."

I eyed Warren out of the corner of my eye. "Maggie?"

He had the decency to look abashed. "Giselle has a thing. You'll see."

Well, if there was ever an answer I hated more than "That's for me to know and you to stay ignorant about/to find out," that would be it. I was about to snap something witty back at him, if I could think of something actually witty instead of my usual idiotic wit which was actually very witty really you just couldn't really tell shut up it totally was witty, but the musical voice trilled "Come in," and he nudged the door open and stepped into the room.

The most beautiful girl—no, woman, that I, to be quite frank, had ever seen, was sitting in a rocking chair besides a roaring fireplace. It appeared to be made of willow. (The chair, not the fireplace. Must I explain everything?) A white cat with sea-colored eyes was curled up in her lap, staring at me with wide slit-pupils in its irises. The woman looked up at me.

She looked to be around her midtwenties, with curly sandy-blonde hair cascading around her face and shoulders. The curls came to a stop around her elbows. Her eyebrows, as she surveyed me, lifted over leaf-green, sparkling eyes, wrinkling the skin on her forehead. Her shade reminded me of the sand found in deserts; warm-looking and warm-smelling. Her scent was that of apple cider, which I found appealing.

Except it made me hungry and that wasn't good. I would have clawed my way through mountains and battled thousands of Svafnirs for an apple. Wistfully, I remembered the pizza I had gone to pick up.

But back to the person.

The most surprising thing about her, in my opinion, was the scar on her forehead.

When she moved her head slightly to the side, it glittered green on her forehead. It reminded me of the color of apples… fresh, green apples, pale and new and sour-smelling and good. I found myself salivating at the thought. I seemed to be hungry. Who would have thought?

The scar was a runemark. Ár, I thought. Two arrows, one pointing down towards the right, the other up towards the left. What did Ár mean again?... ah, no matter.

She tilted her head again to examine me, and then exclaimed, "Warren!" She scooped the cat, who looked vaguely disturbed, into her arms and stood up. She was wearing a long-sleeved dress, looking more like a medieval robe. It was white, like the cat, and green embroidery decorated the neckline and the cuffs.

"It's lovely to see you again!" she enthused, gliding forward with the cat still in her arms. She gave Warren a peck on the cheek and stepped back, regarding me through concerned eyes. "And who's this?"

Without waiting for an answer, she extended a hand – green fingernails, rainbow bangles, and cat hair—and shook my uninjured arm. "I'm Giselle Hart, daughter of Idun," she said brightly. I smiled weakly.

"Mallory Moore, daughter of none," I murmured back, and she nodded. With a light giggle, she danced—no, literally, with the spinning and the twirling and the stuff. She reminded me of an overeager kid, really—back to her chair and gently laid the by-now very shell-shocked cat into it.

"All righty then," she chirped. Her cheer was infectious, and I found myself grinning slightly. She glided back over and scooped me out of Warren's arms with strength surprising in such a delicate figure. "Lessee what we've got here. Away, my compadres!" And she whisked me out of the room, through the foyer, and down a flight of stairs I had failed to see before. We ended up in a brightly lit basement room that bore a resemblance to what a doctor's office would look like had the Care Bears been given renovation permission.

She dumped me unceremoniously on an examining table – which, I might add, was covered in patchwork-looking fabrics with fruit and hearts and peace signs and stuff (was Giselle a hippie? Was it required for all Idun children to be hippies? And if she was a hippie, was she just an eco-friendly peace-lover or a stoner?)—and flicked her hand at the doorway. Warren had trailed down behind us and was hovering in the doorway like a lost hummingbird.

"Move it, boy," Giselle snipped at him with a businesslike attitude. You could practically see the aura of practicality floating around her head. Talk about bad moods. "Stuff… and you know, things… I do things, too… anyway, yeah, I'm going to do stuff here that only members of Gamle-Sti can see. Bugger off."

Warren smiled thinly. "I'm the founder of Gamle-Sti. Submit to my power."

Giselle saluted. "Aye-aye, Cap'n. Whatever you say, Cap'n. I'll just run that ship into that rock right there, if it's okay with you, Cap'n."

And with no further ado, she produced the _largest freaking pair of scissors I have ever seen_ and promptly sliced my bloodstained, scabby-stiff, and frankly rank shirt off.

This was worse than having War push up the hem to check my wounds.

_So. Much. Worse._

I squeaked slightly and rolled over onto my stomach. Warren politely averted his eyes, though it wasn't like I was totally nude or anything—I was wearing a bra, thank you very much _sir._

Well, it _was_ soaked with blood, but whatever.

"I'll get you another shirt," he said tactfully, and went up the stairs. Giselle's eyes were locked on the gashes on my side.

"Oh, gods, Mallory," she breathed. "What happened to you?"

* * *

"Svafnir," I grunted, scrunching up my eyes against the pain that had come with the shirt tearing away bits of scab.

"Svaf- And you survived?" Her eyes were wide with awe. "That's amazing. Most people would be dead by now…"

Suddenly she scuttled over to a drawer against the wall and threw it open. "Did she bite you, Mallory? Did she try to? Even the slightest touch from her teeth can do it—"

"She…" I tentatively placed a hand to my neck. I could feel scabs there—she must have bitten me, even just a little. "Yeah. On my neck…"

"On your _neck!?_" Giselle paused in her frantic rifling to look at me over her shoulder with something akin to respect. "That's fantastic—if you were mortal you'd have been dead several hours ago…"

"Why?"

She dove back into the drawer, and finally extracted a small key. "Something to mention about the Brood," she began hurriedly. The blonde scampered over to a fridge in the corner and started working on a padlock around the handle. "All of them have poison in their fangs. The slightest touch will inject some into the victim's bloodstream that kills them. Starts with ripping agony at random times and then you lose control of your limbs and then your heart stops. I guess she didn't bite you all that deep—"

The padlock popped open and she threw the fridge door open, snatching something I couldn't see clearly. When she returned to my side and offered it to me, though, I saw it was an apple.

It was the most perfect apple I'd ever seen – golden-green and round, flawlessly shaped and without a single bruise. It almost seemed to glow with beauty. When Giselle dug a nail into its skin, the heady scent of it seemed to fill the entire room.

It was unblemished and the apple of everyone's dreams.

But seriously. It was just an apple.

"This isn't just an apple," Giselle said quickly, helping me sit up on the table. "It's one of my mother's apples. She gave them to me 'cause I offered to be a healer and she wanted me to have apples so I could, you know, heal people. These won't give you immortal life 'cause they're not fully ripe but they've been enchanted to stay that way so they'll never ripen and I think you'd better eat this, Mallory, because it'll get rid of the poison and also heal your wounds and here."

She thrust the apple into my hand. Slowly, I lifted it up to my mouth, almost afraid of damaging it.

But it smelled so damn _good._

So I took a bite.

Almost as soon as I did so, I felt the gash on my side suddenly knitting together skin. The cuts on my scalp pulled together, sealing up as neatly as a Ziploc bag. And a heaviness in me—almost like the poison was a thing that I could feel—suddenly disappeared. The pain from the attack dissipated.

Seconds after that fateful bite, I was as good as new. If you ignored the bloodstained clothes.

Giselle breathed out a huge sigh of relief. "Okay. Good. Eat the rest of that. It'll keep you from deteriorating until you and Warren can get out of here." She got up and departed up the stairs behind me. I took another cautious bite of apple.

I wondered vaguely if she wanted to get rid of us. Since I seemed to attract monsters a lot and all.

I didn't blame her. I'd want to get rid of me too.

I heard a noise from the stairs and glanced back. Warren stepped in, carrying a fresh shirt and a pair of black shorts. He gave me a grin.

"So I guess she gave you an apple, then?" He crossed to me and set the clothes down at my side. I took another bite, making an affirmative noise through the mouthful of fruit.

"Kay." He was quiet for a moment, eyes turned respectfully away, then he reached out and touched my shoulder tentatively. "Um, we have to leave as soon as you're dressed. It'll be a lot safer at Gamle-Sti then even here, since this is just a temporary shelter…"

"Okay." I finished the apple and punted it into a nearby trash can. "Let me get changed, will you?"

He nodded and went back upstairs. I dressed quickly, noting with slight amusement that the shirt he'd picked out for me was a "10 Things You Need to Know About Chuck Norris" shirt, and followed with my original (and gore-covered) pair of jeans in my arms.

Giselle and War were standing by the door, both looking nervous. As soon as I appeared, Giselle pounced.

"Mallory, you'd better go," she said anxiously. "Grafvitnir and Goin are converging on this house and you need to get to Gamle-Sti as soon as possible."

Oh, crap, there _were_ more of them! And now they were trying to hurt someone who helped me! "Crap!"

I threw my arms around Giselle quickly, squeezing her in a brief hug. "Thanks so much for healing me, Giselle. Saving my life and all that. I think we'd better save your life now and get our asses out of this town."

She hugged me back, tightly, then as I stepped back, she held up a finger. "Wait one moment." The blonde darted off into another room I hadn't seen, then returned carrying a brown paper bag. She thrust it into my hands. "There's food in there, and an apple if you're injured. War, don't hesitate to call me if you need me, I'll get there as fast as I can."

"What about the Brood?" my companion asked, looking apprehensive. "Giselle, even if Grafvitnir goes off after us, Goin is not going to be smart enough to—"

"War," Giselle interrupted, a steely look in her jade eyes, "you're talking to the girl who got nominated 'most unlikely badass ever' in high school. I can hold my own against an oversized lizard."

A smile flickered onto Warren's face, and he wrapped the blonde in a tight embrace of his own. "Well, you could always strangle him with oversized, giant worms."

"Where the heck am I going to find those?" Giselle clicked her tongue and gently unwrapped his arms. She opened the door.

War and I filed out into the night, which was cool and dark as nights are supposed to be. Behind us, Giselle stood in the doorway, smiling benignly.

"Good luck, you two!" she called. "Remember, an apple a day keeps the doctor away!"

The door swung shut, and we climbed into the car.

Somehow, I knew that nothing immortal would be my downfall. Nothing monstrous or even remotely connected to the world of the gods would kill me. I didn't know how I knew that, but I was completely sure.

And unfortunately, I was completely right.

* * *

**BRIEF A/N:**

_of the apples of idun_

The apples of Idun, goddess of youth and fertility, are (in mythology canon) apples of youth that the gods eat to retain their young state. In this fic, they've been adapted for use, much like Nidhogg and the World Tree.

My sincere apologies for this very late update. I hope to update this fic more often, as we only have about three chapters left until the end...

But do not fear, readers. There will be a sequel.

Please leave a review. Thank you for reading.

-Thai


	7. Of Myself, Friends, and Falling Action

**Chapter Six**

**Of Myself, Friendship, and Falling Action**

* * *

To say that I was surprised when I turned Warren's car's CD player on would be a massive understatement.

Rather, I was surprised when I heard exactly what was blaring from the speakers.

And that, also, was an understatement.

It was an hour or so after we'd left Giselle's, and after chatting about nothing in particular, I asked if I could turn the CD player on.

His reaction was a shrug and a nod, and I leaned forward to press the play button.

I jumped in surprise when it started, the volume much louder than I expected, and frantically slapped the dial until the music was quiet enough for me to think. Then I narrowed my eyes, practiced my hyperventilating angry-breath, and turned to glare at War.

Who was smiling lightly and driving along as if he hadn't just fooled me with the greatest trick since… well, actually, there were no tricks greater than this.

"Your car just Rickrolled me!" I exclaimed indignantly.

He snorted dismissively and fluttered his fingers at the CD player. "So shut it up and get another CD out of the glove box. The case for that one's in there too."

"Do I want to know why you have a Rick Astley CD?" I grumbled, smacking the power button of the radio. It shut up instantly, and I breathed a quiet sigh of relief to whatever deities were out there.

"Actually, it's a hand-burned CD," War explained, as I began the delicate process of ejecting the CD and finding its case. "I have it on hand just in case I'm transporting any suckers that are likely to be Rickrolled easily."

"… I'm a sucker who's likely to be Rickrolled easily? Gee, thanks. I feel so validated." I finally singled out the empty case labeled "_for taxi service only_" and placed the CD—which was, as Warren had said, a custom-burned one—inside. "My life… it just feels so _complete_ now that I know I'm easily Rickrolled."

"Stop being so dramatic."

"No. I refuse." I pointed a finger at him, narrowing my eyes. "You may be a founder of Gamle-Sti, but I—_I, _Warren—am… um…"

The silence went on for a while as I tried to figure out what I was, until Warren lifted his eyebrows and said helpfully, "An idiot?"

"… Don't be mean, Warren. Don't be that guy."

His look said _you will die in your sleep by shaving cream and Sharpie_, so I looked away and coughed awkwardly.

"… don't look at me like that either, Warren. Don't be that guy. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, WARREN. AHHH. HELP! HELP! POLICE! CONSTABLE! SIERRA! PIERRE!"

Warren was putting up admirably well with my loud shrieking, although probably because we were going about sixty and the roof was down, so the wind was carrying away my words. All he did was look at me _like that_ and inquire, "Who's Pierre?"

"I don't know," I said honestly. "But it's fun to say, isn't it? _Pieeerrrrrreee._ Just _rrr_olling the R's around on your tongue. _Pieeeeeerrrrrrrrrreeeeee._"

"Pieeellleee."

"No, you're not doing it right, it's not an _L_ noise, try to purr with your tongue…"

Half an hour later, Warren was rolling his R's like a professional, and we were shouting the name "Pierre" at each other like a couple of deranged monkeys. Judging by the stares of the late-night highway commuters around us, we probably were.

"_Pieeerrrrrreee!_" I screeched, flinging my arms up in a convincing show of inexplicable joy.

"_Pieerrrrrreee!_" Warren shouted, and banged on the horn for emphasis. The siloughette of the truck driver in front of us jumped visibly, and a burly arm emerged from the window to give us the finger.

For some reason this struck me as incredibly funny and I started laughing until I couldn't breathe.

"Okay," I wheezed as soon as I could talk again. "I think it's time for us to get off the road before we hurt someone else or ourselves. What time is it? Like… one in the morning?"

"About ten 'til," Warren said. I glanced at him to see if he was showing any signs of exhaustion, but his eyes were wide and alert; his hands didn't shake at all on the steering wheel.

"How are you still so wide awake?" I asked wonderingly. He shrugged a shoulder and glanced into the rear-view mirror. Something flickered in his eyes—worry, maybe? Or fear?

"You kind of have to be awake to avoid the Brood," he said shortly, and just like that, his maroon eyes were back on the road.

Well, if _that_ wasn't creepy…

* * *

We finally pulled off the road into a little town in Montana, the name of which I never bothered to catch, and then into a trailer park. I was opposed to the idea at first—I mean, don't you need a _trailer_ to stay in a trailer park?—but then War assured me that the security at this park was comprised of demigods and those in the know. "They know Trippy," were his exact words, as he patted the interior of the car fondly.

"Oookay," were mine, as I got out to open the trunk.

As Warren pulled the cover back over the car, I extricated a couple of blankets and a pillow from inside the trunk. These we had a minor battle with, involving much smacking and attempts to strangle, until fifteen minutes later we were lying foot-to-head in the back of the convertible.

At this point I was _really anxious,_ seeing as, um, hello? _Fifteen-year-old girl here,_ along with—what, sixteen-year-old boy? Sixteen-year-old boy I pretty much didn't know.

(Okay, so I knew he was nice and honorable and weirdly chivalrous and all, also he saved my life several times now, but besides that? Nothing.)

Fortunately, the foot-to-head business remained foot-to-head, and we sat up for a few minutes just talking. Warren told me about Sierra and her half-brother Odd—half-brother on the _mother's_ side, he told me, both fathered by different gods—and how they were trying to build a permanent settlement at Gamle-Sti. He talked for a while about Giselle and people like her: demigods of unimportant, peaceful deities like Idun or Freya who lived all over the USA as sort of safe houses for roving Norse.

At the mention of that word, though, it all changed.

"That's what the people at Half-Blood call us," he said bitterly, and his fist clenched with anger. "Just _Norse._ This one girl, Clarice or Clarissa or something, she treated my sisters like dirt. 'Do this, Norse.' 'Fetch that, Norse.' 'Hold your sword up, Norse, you're horrible at fighting.'"

His face was contorted with fury. "We're _inferior_ to them, Mallory. They think we're vermin! Because our parents—the Norse gods, Mallory, are so little-known. The Greek gods; everyone knows them. Everyone can name them off the top of their head. You say _Zeus_ to someone, they say 'Greek god of thunder!' You say _Týr_ to someone, they say 'what about tires?'"

War suddenly sighed, drooping. "The Norse gods are so much less powerful than the Greek gods. You don't remember their little end-of-the-world thing, do you? Must have been, oh… seven years or so ago. I was only eight when it happened."

He placed a hand on his face, looking miserable. "Everyone went to sleep, Mallory. Everyone in the space of their battle just… went to sleep. I have a mortal cousin up there who wrote me after—said she just conked out in the middle of the street. She's not a deep sleeper. She woke up a few times, and… she saw _things._ Monsters. Demigods." His grip tightened, and he was back to being angry. "Percy Jackson in the exalted flesh."

I stayed quiet. Warren sighed again, and dropped his hands to his lap.

"The Norse gods could never accomplish something like that. Hardly anyone knows about them, Mallory, even less people than the Egyptians. Do you know how horrible that is?" He laughed humorlessly. "My father is less powerful than the _Egyptians,_ because nobody knows about him. All the gods' power is based off of belief and nobody believes in my father_._"

I didn't know what to say, until he suddenly leaned forward and grasped my hands.

His eyes were burning brightly red with a hopeful sort of rage. "You, Mallory. You're special. You're more powerful than me, I can tell. You can bring belief back into this world, Lory!" His grip tightened. "So what if we don't know who your immortal parent is? We know it has to be one who's never had one before! Odin has never had demigod children! Neither has Skadi! You're one of the new generation, Lory!"

I stuttered. I'm embarrassed to say it, but I stuttered. In my defense, I was nervous since he'd just done the manic hand-grabbing thing and all.

"B-b-but I have a dad! So I can't be Odin's kid!"

"You never know," he said intensely, still staring into my eyes. I swear we were so close I could see our breath intertwine. "Just because they're not powerful doesn't mean the Norse gods aren't crafty. Look at Sierra, for example—she grew up thinking her dad was her real dad and her mom was AWOL. But when the Brood started coming after her, that's when Loki showed up."

He let go of my hands and leaned back, laughing lightly. "Can you imagine what kind of hello that would be? 'Hi, Sierra, I'm your real father. Sorry I couldn't visit you earlier, but I kind of had to flee from my son.'"

"What?"

"Oh, Loki ended up tied up in Hel with the World Serpent wrapped around his neck," he said carelessly. "Jormangund. His son, can you believe it? Also Hel's brother. When the snake's power got sapped enough by disbelief he sprung himself, and apparently he celebrated his newfound freedom by having an affair with practically every woman that came into sight. Including Sierra's mom, but luckily her husband resembled him enough that when she had Sierra nobody questioned the parentage." He shrugged. "She ran off after the birth, I guess because she was the only one who knew."

I felt like a steamroller had just run me over.

Every illusion I'd had about being a demigod had just been shattered. I thought I was mothered by a goddess! That would explain why she'd had to sprint, wouldn't it? She was too busy to play mommy to a half-mortal chick.

Was I like Sierra instead? Was my father the immortal one? Was the man waiting for me to return at the place I used to call home not my real dad after all?

Who was the woman in the photograph? Who was the man that I called my dad?

I think Warren realized how crap I felt, because he leaned forward and took hold of my hands again, gently this time.

"Mallory?" he said quietly. "I'm sorry. I probably shouldn't have gone off like that, but… the Greek demigods just piss me off. Thinking about them is kind of like sour beer; it clouds my judgment and leaves a really bad taste in my mouth."

I tried to smile, but it didn't really work, so he just looked at me for a moment.

"Good night," I croaked finally, when the silence began to get unbearable.

"… Good night," he said unsurely, and then reached over to turn the light out.

* * *

I didn't sleep.

Instead, I clambered into the front seat and turned the car on. In the glow of the clock numbers, I fished a CD out of the glove box—something by the Cranberries, one of the few bands I'd actually heard. I thought it was strange that Warren actually had a CD I recognized, but then again, we were both demigods, so maybe that was it.

Or something. I didn't really know. Nor did I care, since in my opinion the Cranberries were actually pretty good.

I slipped the CD in and swiveled the dial until it was utterly silent, then nudged it until I could just barely make out the words. Then I leaned back, tugged the blanket over my shoulders, and closed my eyes, just thinking.

Gamle-Sti… it seemed like a mythical place to hear Warren talk about it. An organized place for people like us—like _me._ I could find out who my mother was—or my father, I reminded myself sternly. I could find out who my… parent was, and then—

Maybe I would have siblings! I sat up suddenly, enraptured with the thought. Siblings closer than Dolores, who turned against me at the littlest infraction and called me a freak behind my back, _did she think I couldn't hear her?_

But it wasn't Dolores' fault, really. I sank back into my seat, feeling abruptly saddened. No, it wasn't Dolores' fault. It was mine; I'd turned against _her,_ spitting harsh words in her direction as if I'd expected her to just take them and not to fight back.

I suddenly missed Dolores, very, very much.

Something wet slid down my cheek, and I curled up around my blanket, sobbing silently. The stress of the past few days just smashed down on me like a fist. This was _real._ This wasn't just a silly dream that was going to go away. Even my epiphany in the alleyway seemed like a faraway occurrence, like it had never happened.

But it was real now, I knew, and I couldn't let my fear stand in the way.

I waited until I stopped trembling, then I wiped away my tears. The Cranberries wailed on in the background, something about salvation, and I breathed in through my nose a couple times until I could stop hiccupping.

Then I curled up and went to sleep.

I woke to the sound of Motion City Soundtrack's _Everything Is Alright,_ and for some reason Warren singing along as well. In my groggy haze I noted that he had a pretty nice voice. I yawned lengthily and blinked around at the surroundings.

"What time is it?" I asked blurrily.

"Dunno. One or so?"

"One?! You let me sleep until—when did you wake up?"

"Eight o'clock," he said, flicking his eyes at the clock. "You'd crawled up in the front seat, so I pulled your seat belt and got moving. Went through North Dakota while you were sleeping."

I looked down self-consciously and put a hand over my nose. He noticed, judging from his chuckle. "I didn't hear you snore, Lory."

"… Dolores lied. I will kill her with fire."

"Leave the fire to Sierra. If you ask nicely she might torch your sister."

"Sweet."

He laughed again at that, and I rubbed my forehead in an attempt to wake up. "We can stop for Cokes the next time we find civilization, can't we?" I groused, banging a thumb against a particularly achy bit of my skull. "I'm going through caffeine withdrawal and it's a bitch of a headache."

"Whatever," he said lightly, and pulled off into a rest stop.

I vaulted gingerly out of the car and slumped over a picnic table while he went off to find caffeine. I was almost asleep when a cold can pressed against the back of my neck and I shrieked, instantly jerking upright and flailing wildly.

Luckily for both his dignity and my Coke, my attacker had leapt back at the first screech. He lifted an eyebrow at me and held up a red can.

"You wanted this?" Warren inquired, and I groaned miserably at him.

"You. Are. So. _Cruel,_" I grumbled, and snatched the Coke from him, gulping it as if it were the Elixir of Life.

Forty-five minutes later we were on the road, pleasantly full thanks to Giselle's paper bag of food. (Warren had had to light a fire in the little barbeque thing to make pancakes, but besides that, little hassle.) I was sipping at my third Coke of the morning while the stereo blared Relient K.

We slid to a stop at a red light in the fair city of Elbow Lake, Minnesota.

"Mallory," Warren said suddenly. "Lory, I want to let you know something."

I wasn't really paying attention, but I looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Lory," he said again, quieter this time. "I just… No matter who your parent turns out to be, I won't be cruel, okay? I won't… exile you like some people do to the more… obscure campers. If you turn out to be the daughter of… some minor unknown deity. Or if you end up the sole daughter of… I don't know, Odin or someone. Someone special."

"You'll be nice to me because I'm someone to be pitied," I shot back. "Or because I have enough power to turn you into dust."

"No! No, Mallory, that's not it—"

"Well, you should be," I continued stubbornly. "Because if you're mean to me after I'm claimed, I will smite thee, mortal. Smite thee to _bits_, dammit."

He snorted at that, and shook his head. In front of us the cars continued to pass by, flash-flash-flash.

"If you do turn out to be, like, the princess of all that is special and shiny," he said lightly, "don't change, okay? Please, continue to be an idiot."

"Did you seriously think I'd let power go to my head, War?" I propped my feet up on the dashboard. That plan was ruined when the light went green and Warren accelerated suddenly enough to jerk them back down.

"Hey, I was _relaxing,_ you jerk—anyway. Do you really think I'd get bigheaded with all the power?" I paused, tapping my chin. "… I probably would, actually, but that is beside the point. It's way beside the point. It's like… all the way over at the dull end."

Warren shook his head despairingly. "Mallory, you are so…"

"Awesome?" I grinned charmingly. (Or at least as charmingly as I could, seeing as I looked like I'd been sleeping in the back of a car for the past twelve or so hours—hey! I _had _been sleeping in the back of a car for the past twelve or so hours! Look at my excuses!) "I know."

He took a hand off the wheel and placed it over mine, which was resting on the console. "Sometimes, yes. The rest of the time you're just a dimwit."

"I love you too, you bastard."

"Doesn't everyone?"

We slid to a stop in front of another red light, and Warren was just turning to me, a strange little light in his eyes, when I saw the car.

It was a navy-blue Volvo station wagon, and it was on the wrong street. Instead of the street that cars were supposed to go _down,_ it was driving _up_ the street. Towards us.

Towards me.

I think I had time to think, _Oh, shit,_ and then the Volvo smashed straight into my car door, and everything went white with pain.

And then everything went black.

* * *

**BRIEF A/N:**

My sincerest apologies for this very late update.

This chapter was slightly shorter than my usual 10-page rule. This is also the penultimate chapter. After Chapter Seven, there will be an epilogue.

Then, readers, there will be a sequel.

Please leave a review. Thank you for reading.

-Thai


	8. Of Mother, Life, and the End

**Chapter Seven**

**Of Mother, Life, and the End**

* * *

When I came to, all I felt was pain.

I learned later that the car had smashed straight into my door, causing me by the laws of physics—or something, I'd never paid attention in class—to crumple towards it; so in addition to the snapped ribs, shattered right wrist, glass gashes, and various cuts and bruises, I had head trauma as well.

I didn't know this when I woke up.

All I knew that I hurt, and I hurt bitterly.

The next thing I knew was that there was a needle in my arm, and I wanted to choke at the thought. _I hate needles, _I thought dizzily. _Dad, take it out. Dad? Daddy? Dolores, tell Daddy to take out the needle… Warren, take the needle out, please?_

"Who's she talking about?"

Words came swimming into my senses, and when I opened my eyes—they'd been closed? How strange—I could vaguely see the outline of Warren's brunette hair hovering over me.

"Her dad. She doesn't like needles, she's asking him to take it out. Dolores' her sister."

"Take the needle out, War," I mumbled. "Pleeeaaaseee, I hate…"

And back to black.

When light came back to me I was lying in a hospital bed, and Warren was sitting besides me, holding my uninjured hand.

There was still a needle in my arm.

"Warren…" I moaned. "Th-the needle…"

"Blood drip, Lory," he said anxiously. His eyes were wide and scared, I could see through my blurry haze. "You lost a lot of blood—"

"Th-the crash," I groaned, flopping hazily though my memories. "What—?"

"Some drunk guy. He died instantly, went straight through the windshield. You got a couple of bad bangs, Mallory—"

"I'm going to die."

"No! No, you're not going to die, Mallory!" He suddenly looked angry, and he loomed up over me, still gripping tightly to my hand. "You aren't going to die, they're going to—do something, you'll be okay! You'll come to Gamle-Sti—"

It was too late. We both knew that. I gave him a wan smile. "War, if I ever get to Gamle-Sti it'll be in a hearse."

"Shut up!" he roared. "You're not going to die, dammit! You're not going to—"

"How bad is the damage?"

"It doesn't matter! You're going to stay alive—"

"How bad is the damage?!"

He suddenly deflated, flopping back down into his chair. He put his head in his hands, and I could practically see him start to shake.

"Your hand's broken," he said quietly. "Into so many pieces it would be impossible to reconstruct it. The window shattered, so you have shards of glass all over your right side, including some in your face, almost in your eye. The techies say you jerked back towards the right because the airbags were kaput, so you banged your head bad."

"There's more, Warren," I said, with steel in my voice—or at least as much steel as I could muster with the pain I could feel growing in the right side of my chest. "I know you're hiding the fatal thing from me."

Something wet and shiny dropped into his lap. "… the ribs on your right. They all snapped. Some of your left, too, but—one of them punctured your lung. You were supposed to be dead before you got to the hospital, but—"

"Somehow I survived this long," I finished for him, and smiled weakly. "Good old Mom or Dad, I guess. Mallory can live long enough to say goodbye! Must be those amazing immortal genes!"

I lifted my right hand—which I now saw was in a tight cast—up in the air to pump it feebly, but Warren did not Look Amused.

"You're not going to die," he said again, with much less conviction. I shrugged wearily.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I shouldn't have stayed alive long enough to give you hope. I… I wanted to go to Gamle-Sti, really I did. And… my parent…"

I reached out to grip his hand, which for some reason looked so much darker than mine in that moment. He looked up, and our eyes locked for just a moment.

_I'll miss you, _I thought, tiredly. _But it'll be okay. You'll see._

_Okay,_ his gaze said back, and then he looked away out the window and I lay back to stare at the ceiling.

"Do me a favor?" I said. Even to me my voice sounded ridiculous; thin. Like someone had taken my voice box and stretched it. Like bubblegum. "Don't tell Dolores or Dad that I'm dead, okay?"

"Why not?"

"I don't want them to know," I said softly. "Dolly would be happy, judging by those… minutes before I left. And Dad… better for him to think I've just disappeared."

I turned my head, suddenly feeling more exhausted than I ever had. "Send him a letter once in a while, okay? Typewritten. Just short. 'I'm okay' or whatever."

"Okay."

"And, Warren?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell Sierra not to torch my sister," I mumbled, and then my eyes closed.

* * *

Death felt like falling.

It was like I was lying in my hospital bed with Warren—where were all the techies? Where were all the meds? Though the entire exchange took about five minutes, so maybe they were elsewhere—and then I suddenly toppled backwards. Like the whole top half had just suddenly disappeared.

I was falling backwards, down and down and down, yet for some reason I never flipped over.

When I finally stopped falling, I opened my eyes.

I was standing on steel-colored carpet, which also happened to be the color of the walls. People were everywhere: kids and teenagers and old ladies with hair like dirty snow piled up on their heads. They were all sitting on black leather couches, all piled together like sardines, and there was a man sitting at the desk.

I went up to him.

He looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and inquired, "You're dead, aren't you? Or are you one of the half-bloods again, looking to bother Hades?"

"Dead half-blood," I returned. "Can't you tell by the—"

I looked down at my transparent… spirit? Ghost?—and was surprised to see that my injuries had disappeared. Instead I was dressed in the same clothes I'd worn that first fateful day: badly torn jeans with badly sewn patches and a worn grey tee-shirt with notes on it from me and Lux's conversations.

"Um… Nevermind," I stuttered. "Anyway… yeah. Demigoddess. Dead. Dunno where to go."

"You don't have coins for passage, do you?" the man said in a bored voice, then suddenly peered closer at me. "Oh. _Oh._ I see."

"What? What do you see?" I asked nervously.

"You're one of the Norse, aren't you?" he said, condescendingly, and chuckled. It was a low chuckle, sort of a better-than-thou one, and if I hadn't hated this guy before, I sure as Hel did now.

"What's it to you, _Greek?_" I spat back, and folded my arms. "So what if I'm Norse? I'm still allowed to die, aren't I?"

"Norse aren't allowed in Hades' domain," he said indifferently. "It would take far too much time and paperwork. We'd have to make up a whole new piece of the Underworld for you lot. Much easier just to let you go down to your own place."

"Our… own place?"

"Not yet a part of the crowd when you died, dear?" The name was said just like the rest of his sentences—in a disinterested monotone. "How disappointing. Yes, take a right when you get to the elevators, you'll see a door marked with your silly rune, open it and there you go. Don't let me see you loitering around here again, godling."

He flicked a careless hand behind him, and the spirits of the dead—because that's what they were, I realized when I saw the outline of a cactus through a pale young boy—moved away from a little passage I hadn't seen. I nodded to the man: he grunted and returned to whatever he was doing beneath his desk.

I took a deep breath and started towards the corridor.

* * *

When I opened the door, I was greeted by a stone passage.

The passage had stairs, all right, and the walls were lit by glowing purple runes—I couldn't quite see them when I looked directly at them, but I thought they were all _Naudr_—and worn smooth by thousands of dead passing through, but the fact was that it was a stone passageway. And it looked like a very long stone passageway, too.

One that led directly to the world of the dead, where I would reside forevermore as one of the dead people.

Some little bit of Viking legend trickled back to me: the worst thing to do was to die a bloodless death, a death on a bed. I hadn't quite gotten the bloodless part right, I thought wryly, glancing down at the place where my rib had so recently stabbed my life away. Would the fact that I'd died in a hospital ruin my chances?

I could go back, of course. Back to the lobby, and stay there forever, just hanging out like the rest of the spirits. But, I reflected, that man was back there, just waiting for me to loiter so he could exert some scary power on me or something.

And in front of me, the possibility of shame even among the dead.

There was only one thing to do in a situation like this, I decided, and started on my way down the stone stairs.

It seemed to take hours. After the first thirty or so minutes I began to pass the time by singing, silly little ditties from my childhood at first, then bits of old music that I knew, then popular things from today. I was, in fact, in the middle of _Year 3000_—the only Jonas Brothers song I'd ever admit I liked, ever, mostly because I hated the rest of their music like whoa—when the passageway opened out and I stumbled into somewhere altogether different.

"_He said 'I've been to the year 3000,_" I shrieked, twirling around in the narrow passageway. "_Not much has changed but they lived underwater! And your great-great-gr_aaaahhh!"

I stumbled on a stair. And of course, with my luck, I began to fall. My eyes were closed: I was fully expecting my nose to meet hard stone.

Instead, I did a faceplant in sand.

After the required sputtering, swearing, and flailing around at the sand, I sat up, spitting some of it out of my mouth. White powder clung to my eyelashes; I brushed it off as best I could and shook my head, sand flying away from me like dust off of a dog.

Once I was moderately clean again, I looked up, and caught my breath at what I saw.

Almost so far away it was out of sight lay a black necropolis. Towers spiraled high into the grey, ambient-lit sky, while obsidian walls surrounded it. It was practically a fortress of death.

_That's where I'm supposed to be,_ I thought. _Right in there._

I stood up. For some reason my sneakers didn't sink into the sand. It was almost like I was hovering there.

I took a step. And another. And another.

I didn't sink.

This was going to go a lot faster, wasn't it?

I sprinted forward for a few minutes, then skidded to a stop. I wasn't feeling as tired as I should have felt from running so quickly. Hell, I wasn't feeling tired at all!

I laughed with delight. Finally, I could run as fast as I wanted for as long as I wanted to! I was dead! I had no energy to deplete! I could do whatever I wanted!

I leaped forward, practically flying over the flat white sand. For about ten minutes all was freedom, the bliss of speeding forward faster than any living girl ever could—

Until the bones appeared.

I was flashing along, happy as a migrating coconut, when suddenly something white appeared beneath my feet and I went flying. My face went into the sand, my butt went over my face, and I landed on my back on the white surface, gasping. What had just happened?!

When I could stop shaking from shock, I sat up and turned to glare at whatever had tripped me.

The thing that had tripped me was a human skull.

I didn't feel quite so much like glaring at it anymore.

I jumped to my feet, stuck my tongue out at the skull, and started running again, albeit a little more slowly this time. The city was closer now, much closer, but still too far away from me for my comfort. I stopped looking at it, concentrating now on the ground beneath my feet.

The bones were sprinkled sparsely at first, and I only saw a ribcage or a leg bone every once in a while, but as I got closer to the city more and more appeared. After a few almost-trips, I decided to stop watching the city and start trying not to be felled by skeletons.

Again. And again. And again.

After my fourth collision with the sand, I started trying to avoid the bones rather than jump over them.

With my luck?

It didn't really work.

* * *

After hours of running, I finally reached the doors of the citadel.

Up close, the city was a lot scarier than far away. The doors themselves were built of what looked like huge sheets of bone, and the handles were arms bent in the shape of fancy door handles. The knocker, which was right at my level, looked like the skull of something small. Maybe a rabbit?

Whatever it was, _no way in Hel was I touching it._

After some ineffectual pulling, pushing, kicking, and incomprehensible shrieks of rage, I finally gave up.

"You want me to play your game, Hel?" I muttered darkly, reaching for the skull. "Fine. I'll play your stupid game. Bitch."

My fingers trembled when I grabbed hold of the skull, which was oddly smooth, and banged it twice against the doors.

I waited a moment, then banged again once. A pause, and then three times.

A rumble started behind the doors, and I dropped the knocker. It made an ominous clanging sound on the ivory plane as I stepped back, and then the doors began to creak open.

What waited for me behind the doors? I bit my lip, sudden images of zombies or monsters or sword-wielding Vikings invading my imagination. Would there be thousands of dead in the necropolis? Would they all shame me for dying from _a car crash_?

I didn't quite know my eyes were squished shut with terror until a light female voice said, "Mallory, open your eyes."

I cracked one eye open, expecting something like Svafnir to be there to nom off my head, but instead I was greeted with a very different sight.

A woman with skin as pale as the door that lay open behind her was standing on the threshold, long-fingered hands hanging loosely at her sides. Her long hair, black as night, was tied in a loose fishtail braid that ended at her hips, almost disguised against the long black gown she wore. As she moved slightly, light glinted off a silver ring on her left ring finger: the jewel was a ruby, red as blood.

She was staring at the ground, but as I stared in awe, she looked up at me with mismatched eyes.

One was green: greener even than Sierra Voss's. Greener than the grass that Dad had been so proud of that summer. In comparison the grass was bleached yellow, dry and dead.

One was the color of dried blood and water, like ambient-lit clouds in horror movies. Deep magenta, like light seen through rubies and amethysts together.

The color of my eyes.

"_Mom,_" I whispered, and then I threw myself at her.

She caught me, of course, as I sobbed helplessly into her shoulder. She held me and rocked me from side to side as I cried.

"This isn't fair," I finally gulped. "I finally meet my mother, and I'm _dead._ I have photographs of you at home! Dad told me all these stories! I wait years to meet you, and then I die, and here you are. This fucking _sucks._"

I could feel her nod behind my back, and then she stepped away, looking into my eyes.

"Welcome home, Mallory Helsdaughter," was all she said, and then the ivory gates slid shut behind us.

And I was home.


	9. Epilogue: Hallelujah

epilogue.

_**but you don't really care for music,**_

_**do you?**_

* * *

It was easier than it should have been to get Mallory's body out of the hospital. I thought hospitals were supposed to be crawling with techies and meds. Doctors. People.

I think they knew she wasn't going to make it; and that was why they left me alone with her.

I didn't think about it. I just waited until Mallory's hands went cold and then I picked her up. The needle slid out of her arm. Scarlet dripped onto the floor, and for some reason I was reminded of that old song from the Disney movie.

"Drip, drip, drop, little April shower," I sang to myself, as I wrapped Mallory in the sheet and closed her eyes. The blood had stopped flowing from her wounds, so if I was lucky perhaps someone would think she was sleeping.

Oh, gods, how I wished she was just sleeping.

There was a horrible pain in my chest, but I ignored it as I stepped out of the room and started down the hall.

I didn't meet anyone. I slipped out a back door that it was just my luck to find. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was fate, maybe someone up there just liked me.

I placed the body gently, very gently, in the backseat of the rental car I'd commandeered when it became obvious Trippy wasn't going to make it either. She looked peaceful there, as if she really was sleeping. It was like she was taking a nap in the backseat, just like last night—

My stomach twisted. I couldn't think about it. I got into the rental car and started the engine.

I drove. Drove mindlessly, with no real emotion. It was like someone else was controlling the hand that shifted gears, the foot that slid the car to a gentle stop. It wasn't me who got out of the car and put more gas in, who went inside to pay. The girl at the counter was pretty, I suppose—a bleach-blonde with sparkling brown eyes who smiled sympathetically at me when I slid the bills over the counter.

Then I went back to my car, got in, and started driving again.

I don't know when I started talking to Lory, but I did. I just started talking to the body in the back like she was sitting there reading a book and not really listening. I told her about my sister Pease, who was almost as old as me and she was on the Gamle-Sti council with me and her name was really Peaseblossom, but everyone called her Pease. And she made us pronounce it Peace, because she thought it was amusing that the representatives from the Týr cabin were called "War and Peace."

I told her about what we had done last winter when the settlement was barely made, when Sierra's half-brother had dragged in a huge pine tree that Sierra and some other kids had helped cut down, and we'd run around in a panic to find Christmas ornaments for no reason other than because we could, until finally we'd pushed it upright in the middle of the settlement and the younger kids were so happy with it because the older ones, me and Pease and everyone else on the council had gone out to the closest town and bought Christmas presents for them all.

I told her about my family, the ones from Gamle-Sti and the ones I knew from home. I told her about stupid escapades from my childhood like the one time I'd sledded down a snowy hill and smashed straight into a tree and I'd had a bruise on my leg for weeks.

I just kept talking until my throat was sore, and even then I put on a CD I'd salvaged from Trippy and just sang along to Hallelujah, the Rufus Wainwright version, until my voice was so hoarse I couldn't sing at all. And then I pulled through the Gamle-Sti gates, disguised from mortals by walls of runes—I'd never had a chance to teach her runes, never got to teach her how to say the name of one and finger it in the air and have it flare to life—and then I staggered out of the car and Pease caught me.

Her eyes were red and purple just like mine, and they held the worry I hadn't been able to shake off for days now, ever since I first met Mallory. She looked at me and smoothed my hair back and she asked quietly, "Are you okay?"

I'd left barely two weeks before to go find Mallory, to find the place where the Brood was converging now, and now I was returning. The Brood hadn't won.

But I had most definitely lost.

"She's dead," I said bluntly, and those words practically hit Pease like a punch. She collapsed to her knees, put her head in her hands.

"Car crash," I continued. She cried out, a sound that sounded something like "_no"_ but in some language I couldn't understand, the language of pain, and that sound brought Sierra running over.

Her eyes were green and flashing and she looked so furious with fear.

"Where is she?" she demanded. "You didn't lose her, did you? Holy shit, Warren, I only had to save her last _night_—"

"She's dead," I said again, and all the fight went out of Sierra. She drooped.

A few curious young Idun children came running up, and Pease pulled herself together. "Everyone's okay, guys," she said hoarsely, getting to her feet. "Warren just has some… bad news. Did you bring it?"

"Yeah."

"Don't let the kids see it," she said limply, and shooed the young ones away with cheerful words and a bright smile. I could tell it was forced, but just—_just—_barely.

"I guess we should…" Sierra started.

"Yeah."

We looked around to make sure nobody was there, and then I reached inside for the body.

She looked so pale and thin in my arms. So dead. I bit my lip to stop the burning that was starting in my throat.

"Car crash."

"I can't believe it," Sierra said softly. "After all we went through. I killed a dragon, we risked our lives, came out of shelter and she gets killed in a car crash."

"Life sucks, doesn't it?" I said bluntly, and we went down to the shore.

Gamle-Sti was on the very edge of the Saginaw Bay, and cold as hell in December. We had to pick at the soil for a while until it came apart, and then it took a while to dig a pit deep enough to place Mallory in.

The sheet came off while we were working, and when we placed her in, she was lying in all her fatally wounded glory. She looked like bulldozers had been working on her, and when I saw her peaceful face, I had to swallow the tears I knew were probably going to take over sometime.

Sierra stared impassively down at her for a moment, then threw the sheet in over her. While I stood, unable to move, she calmly started filling in the grave.

"We should place a marker there," I said hoarsely, when it was finished. "Or something."

"The little ones will be curious," she replied tersely. "They'll dig it up, see her body, and then we'll be responsible for scarring young minds. It'll have to do."

She left. I sat down besides Mallory's grave, staring at the icy sea.

I'm not quite sure when I felt it, but there was a prickle on the back of my neck that meant someone was suddenly there.

I glanced over my shoulder. A woman, almost as beautiful as Mallory, if not more so, was standing behind me. Though she wore a strapless black dress, she didn't seem to be cold: she didn't shiver, and she didn't even have goosebumps prickling her arms.

She bent down so her face was closer to mine, and I noticed her eyes were mismatched—one reddish-purple, the typical color of most Norse demigods, and the other bright green, a color you usually only saw on those related to Loki.

I suddenly realized who this was, and blurted—

"Half-Born Hel!"

"Warren, son of Týr," she returned, regarding me emotionlessly. "A pleasure to meet you at last."

"Where's Mallory?" I sprang to my feet, suddenly furious at the goddess. "You must have her, she's dead, she's in your domain now—"

"Mallory is running," she said calmly. "She is happy, happy almost like she was before the Blood began coursing in her. There is sadness in her still, but she is lost in the joy of death."

"The joy of death?! How can death be happy?!" I almost wanted to kill her, but that was impossible—and where would she go? Her own realm, of course. "It wasn't her time to die!"

"No." Her face hardened, and suddenly I saw past the beautiful woman and saw instead, the livid goddess. Rage bubbled in her like it often bubbled in me, and for some reason, this calmed me.

"The Fates, of course. Not the Norns, not those who have the right to govern the Norse. They wove her thread and cut it before they should have."

She threw her shoulders back, looking the very part of the vengeful goddess. "Hades will pay for this, of course. And we shall do what we can."

"What do you mean, what we can?" Hope was suddenly exploding in my stomach like fireworks. "Do you mean she can come back?"

"Remember the lightest," she said cryptically, and turned away.

I stood, bewildered, and then started after her. "Hel! Wait! What do you mean, remember the lightest? What are you talking about? Why do you care so much about Mallory's fate?"

Hel stopped momentarily, and turned to look at me with one eye—the green one, emerald as the eyes of her father Loki.

"Let it never be said that Half-Born Hel is an uncaring mother," the goddess said commandingly, and then black mist surrounded her and she disappeared.

I was alone.

_Hel. Half-Born Hel is Mallory's mother._

… _Well, gods-damn._

I laughed, for a moment, then I turned to look at the place where we'd laid Mallory to rest. The sun was going down, glinting off of the sea, and I just had to smile.

Mallory was gone. And maybe she wouldn't be coming back. But there were others who weren't, and others who weren't going to leave, and those were the ones who needed me now.

As if on cue, Pease shrieked from across Gamle-Sti, "_WARREN! GET YOUR BUTT OVER HERE AND SEE IF YOU CAN DECIPHER THIS!_"

"See you later, Lory," I told the newly turned soil, and then I turned to run to my sister.

_**Fin.**_

* * *

_Warren's and Mallory's story will continue in the sequel, __Crumple Up the Moon._

**_for my friends. thank you for not abandoning this story, and i'll see you in the Wormhole._**


End file.
